More Than My Dearest Friend
by BookRookie12
Summary: Elizabeth, along with her Papa and Jane, visits all that London's parks have to offer a 6-year-old minor gentry girl. There, she makes a friend so close that they transcend the bounds of propriety and hang the consequences. But when the perfect friendship is torn from the inside, how does Lizzy react? [Equals, Lovers, Soulmates Volume 1]
1. Of Cartwheels and Kites

**Hello everyone!**

 **I recently held a poll in which the results were that I should upload MTMDF's rewrite as a separate story but not delete the old one. So that one will remain up, but the rewrite is better by my standards, with fewer pot holes if I can manage it.**

 **In any case, there aren't going to be a lot of changes to the story, so the sequels aren't going to be changed a lot. While the first few chapters are largely the same, I changed them to deepen William and Lizzy's relationship.**

* * *

Lizzy had never minded what other people thought of her, especially because she was only six years old. No one's opinion had ever mattered to her more than her father's or Jane's, and they always reassured her that she was a good person – and she trusted their judgement, since Jane was the much more mature age of eight, and their father was even older and more experienced – thirty-nine. Or maybe it was thirty-nine. She couldn't be expected to keep count, but she tried anyways.

It was well into the summer that her father took her to see the parks of London. Hyde Park was, of course, out of the question, but some of the other parks welcomed the lower-class gentry, such as a few near Gracechurch Street, and some more near the affluent part of London – and an unfortunate distance from Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's home.

"Papa!" Elizabeth complained, pushing her brunette curls out of her chocolate brown eyes. "Why do we have to walk so far?"

"Now, Lizzy, we will be there soon, so you will be able to rest your poor tired feet. I apologize, my girl, but your uncle cannot spare any horses for our carriage, and you will have to walk. Jane at least does not complain, see? Worry not, my girl, you will be able to climb trees as much as you like, and run around to your heart's content. Perhaps you can even weave a flower crown for Mary."

"What good does a flower crown do for a girl of four years, Papa?" Elizabeth stubbornly asked, halting.

"Very well, for Kitty, perhaps?"

"It does even less for a two-year-old!"

"Alright, for Jane, then."

"Alright!" Elizabeth still remained standing in one place.

"Lizzy, the faster we walk, the sooner you can get there, and the sooner you can rest your feet."

"Yes, Papa." She began walking again.

"Now remember, there are two parks to visit today."

"Yes, Papa."

The first of these was a park the Elizabeth could not be bothered to remember the name of. It was wide, beautiful expanse of soft green grass, and on such a fair day as this one, it appeared to be liberty and freedom itself under the blue sky. There were trees and park benches, of course, but most of those were scorned by Elizabeth as she ran out onto the green, accompanied by her father and Jane. Their father took them to a part of the park where they would not be seen by most of the more fashionable crowd in the park, where Elizabeth could try to climb trees to her heart's content. And climb she did – after a good tea time picnic and a nice long rest for her 'poor tired feet'.

Jane had brought a few little snacks from her Aunt Gardiner's kitchen as well as the hamper their father had brought, and sat placidly next to her father as she enjoyed the treats. Elizabeth crowed from the third highest branch in the tree, her frock miraculously unharmed, as she waved her hands from the top. "Papa! Papa! See how high I can climb!"

Her father smiled indulgently, and beckoned her down to eat. "Lizzy, if you do not come down and eat, you will have nothing to eat later, and then you will regret it." Elizabeth scowled but climbed down. However, after a scone or two and some milk, she was racing across the grass with her arms stretched out. She had never been in this park before, so she was determined to enjoy it as much as possible before she must return to Gracechurch Street.

Such was her enjoyment, however, that she did not see the kite flying up in front of her, or its owner, focused solely on his pastime to notice the little girl in front of him, until they collided with such force as to bowl even the tall boy over.

His kite-string got tangled up in his dark hair and his arms, while the kite itself hit the ground four feet away from them. Elizabeth, disoriented, took a moment before she realized that the boy was standing up and trying to disengage the string from his purple fingers. He failed miserably, even managing to entangle his numb fingers even more.

Elizabeth laughed and reached up. "No – the string goes there, now the reel underneath, and over, and back again, no – not _between_ them, _over_ them. Sorry, did I tug it too hard? Sorry!" She tugged determinedly at the string, unknotting it, untying it, untangling it, until she could safely pull it out of his hands without cutting off one or more of his fingers.

Only when she had completely disentangled the boy's now-normal-coloured fingers did she dare to look up and examine him.

He was very tall, almost double her height, and looked to be about twelve or thirteen, even older than Jane, judging from his clothing. He was no longer in a little boy's coats, and he was also out of skeleton suits, evident by his green coat, cream breeches, dark boots, and cravat. His hair was very dark brown, almost black, and tousled, so that it looked very boyish and kind of... adorable, although his demeanour warranted that he would never wish to be called such. His face had not yet lost its childish roundness, but it was as serious and grave as a grown man's – or even more so, since Elizabeth had never seen her father look that severe. She wondered why so young a boy would be so sad-looking, though his face was flushed with the running he had been doing to follow his kite.

She at last raised her eyes to his. They were a brilliant cerulean blue, almost as light as the sky above him, and were studying her intently. Unashamedly returning his gaze, she noticed a golden ring around the blue irises.

"Hello, sir. I apologize for crashing into you," she said lightly, dropping into a rather awkward curtsy. She felt even more embarrassed about her bumbling curtsy when he sketched a perfect bow. "Good afternoon, miss." He dragged his bright blue-and-yellow square toy back to him, and Elizabeth felt bubbly with excitement. It was a beautiful – what was it? "What is that?"

"That is a _kite_ ," he said, articulating clearly and carefully to make sure she understood. He hesitated for but one second, then he offered her the reel. "Do you want to fly it? -Just once." His voice was not very deep, but it cracked several times all the same.

Elizabeth squealed in delight. This was wonderful! "Yes! Yes! Thank you!" she cried, throwing her arms around the boy's waist, which was the highest she could reach. He stood still, awkward, until he – driven by an instinct, perhaps (it certainly seemed so) – pulled his arm up and stroked her hair. When she skipped back, he gave her the reel and held up the kite. They waited until a strong gust of air blew their hair into their eyes, at which point the boy shouted, "Run as fast as you can when I say 'go!' alright?"

"Alright!"

"One, two, three, GO!"

Elizabeth pumped her little legs as fast as they could go – and it was fast. She looked back, breathless, and saw the great big blue bird soaring on the wind, and then she concentrated on her running. Finally the boy shouted, "Now stay still and let the wind do its work!"

She obeyed, turning back to see the kite flapping up and down in the wind, and the boy running towards her, a grin on his stoic face. It transformed his expression completely, and his demeanour went from staid and proper to boyish, wild, and happy. To her immense astonishment he actually did a cartwheel at the last stretch, coming up in front of her. She felt envious of his obvious dexterity and freedom, because his cartwheel was free and easy, and he evidently was very good at it.

"You are very good for a novice," he remarked, looking up at the kite. "In fact, you are very good, even if you had not been a beginner. I believe you have got the hang of the kite-string better than I!"

Elizabeth smiled. "Thank you!" As payback for the compliment, she handed the reel back to him, and steered his hands – they really were very inept – so that he flew the kite properly.

He smiled at her when the wind dropped as well as the kite. "Thank you for your instruction, Miss -?" He stopped short, remembering that he did not know her name.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet." She grinned at him, and he smiled again.

"Miss Bennet, then."

"No, no, I am _not_ Miss Bennet," she said petulantly, making him school his features, though an amused grin still danced in his eyes. Yes, his _eyes_. They were so expressive that they could be taken as a face altogether. "Miss Bennet is my sister Jane! I am Miss Elizabeth!"

He gave her a grave bow. "May I have the honour of meeting your sister, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Wait; not yet. I have not learned your name yet."

He shrugged uneasily. "If you have been good enough as to supply me with your full and real name, perhaps I should do so as well." He rolled up his reel. "Fitzwilliam George Alexander Darcy, at your service, Miss Elizabeth."

"How can you say that?" she asked in consternation. "Fitz-will-um is already a mouthful, and you add 'George Ale-sander Darcy' to that as well?"

He laughed. "I find it tedious to pronounce my name in its entirety, so I shorten it. Most people call me Mr. Darcy the younger, or Master Darcy, but I prefer to be called Fitz, as my cousins call me."

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. " _Fitz_ sounds like _fizz_ – you are not fizz! May I call you William instead, Master Darcy?"

"William it shall be, then," he said, laughing again at her reaction to his nickname.

"And you may and can call me Lizzy," she offered.

"Not yet," he said. "I wish to be further acquainted with someone before I call them by a nickname. My cousin Richard, for example, I have known all my life, so I call him Richie. My cousin Alexander, who is named after his father – where my third name comes from – allows me and only me to call him Alex. So I will not call you Lizzy until we are better acquainted."

"Oh, very well."

"Fitzwilliam!" A man's voice carried over the field. "Where are you?"

"Oh," said Fitzwilliam, looking abashed. "That is my father. I must go, Miss Elizabeth. Goodbye!" The boy gathered his kite to his chest and took off. Elizabeth stared after him, looking for the man he said to be his father. William was very fast, she could give him that, although if she was his height and age she could probably still win in a race. Disappointed not to catch a glimpse of the older Mr. Darcy, she wandered back to her father and Jane, and ate a few more scones.

"Now, Lizzy," said her father mischievously, "I saw you running around earlier, with some poor boy's kite. What did you do now, Miss Lizzy?"

"I did not _steal_ it, Papa," Elizabeth protested. "I bumped into him, and he offered to let me fly it once."

"Did he, now?"

"Yes Papa, and he is very tall. He says to call him William, and he looks very sad when he does not smile," Elizabeth rambled on, as a six-year-old is likely to do when they meet a person they like, particularly when that person has lent them his or her kite.

"How old is he?" Mr. Bennet wondered aloud.

"I think he is twelve, or maybe thirteen, Papa, for he is in men's clothes and not skeleton suits like you say boys have when they can wear pants but not breeches." She picked at the cloth on her father's knee for emphasis. "Also, he is very tall, and his voice is not very deep, but it deeper than mine – and it _wobbles_."

"Wobbles?" repeated Mr. Bennet in amusement.

"Yes, it wobbles, Papa! One minute his voice is deeper than yours, next minute it is as high as mine! And sometimes it is in between, so he sounds not quite a boy – but not quite a girl, either," she said, and scrambled off her father's knee to climb more trees.

Thomas Bennet laughed as his daughter pelted him with some of the small blossoms from the tree.


	2. Of Parks and Pebbles

Elizabeth reluctantly dragged herself out of the tree at five o'clock, seeing as they still had another park to visit – whichever park that was.

As soon as she entered the park, she saw a familiar kite with a familiar boy flying it in the centre. She tugged on her father's hand. "Papa, Papa, that's William!"

"William, is it? Alright, lead the way, my Lizzy." Thomas was highly amused. Elizabeth nodded, and began to walk forward. Luckily, no one was in sight to see the six-year-old girl shouting across the green. "William!" Elizabeth stood on her tiptoes and waved at the older boy. "William!"

The boy turned towards her, and at the same moment, a downdraft soared towards the unfortunate boy, sending his kite crashing straight into his face and the boy onto the ground. Elizabeth gave up on propriety and dashed straight for her newfound friend, however tenuous their acquaintance was. "William, are you alright?"

"I – I believe so," he murmured, rubbing his watering eyes and bruised cheek. The wind blew his hair into his eyes, and he rubbed harder as he tried to rid himself of the itch. Elizabeth saw the hardship his hair was giving him, and as impetuously as little children do, with all the innocent kindness of childhood, reached out and held his hair back.

Once he had finished tending to his bruises and eyes, he turned to her thankfully. "Thank you for holding my hair up."

"It was nothing, but you are welcome." Elizabeth shrugged her small shoulders and offered William a hand up. "Come on, get to your feet."

"Thank you," he said again, and availed himself of the support. He looked at her intently. "You remind me all the time of my baby sister," he said quietly. "She is but a year old, and you remind me not in looks – for my sister is blond and blue-eyed – but in deeds. Like her, you are always doing things out of simple kindness." He smiled. "Like pushing my hair out of my face when you know my eyes are smarting."

Elizabeth smiled. "Are you hungry? I think we still have some scones left over from our picnic!"

William laughed. "No, I am not. But if I am not much mistaken, that is your father and older sister coming towards us this moment, correct? Would you be so kind as to introduce me?"

"Yes!" Elizabeth ran to Mr. Bennet, caught his hand, and tugged him in the direction of her friend. "Papa, this is William. I cannot tell you his full name, since I cannot pronounce it – it is so long and complex!" She stuck her tongue out, much to the amusement of the older people, even Jane.

"Very well then," Mr. Bennet remarked, "I shall have to do with William. How old are you, boy?"

William slightly bristled at being referred to as 'boy', but he wisely held his tongue on that subject as he replied, "Thirteen this past April, sir."

"Are you in Eton yet?"

"Yes sir, but I have been sent home for the summer holidays."

Mr. Bennet nodded. "And so, since my daughter cannot pronounce your name, I will hear it from you, young sir."

William shifted from foot to foot, then answered, "Fitzwilliam, sir."

"Is that your given name or your surname?" Mr. Bennet gave no hint of being surprised that one of 'the boy's' names was the surname of a rare line of earls that had yet to be touched by scandal.

"My first Christian name, sir. My father would prefer for me not to reveal my full name to strangers."

"My daughter was a stranger."

"Well, she gave me her full name, so I felt obliged to offer mine in return. Besides, she did help me out of a rather, ah, tangled situation." William glanced sidelong at Elizabeth, who laughed delightedly. "See Papa, this is why I like him!"

Mr. Bennet still pressed for the young man's name, and so William reluctantly said, "Darcy."

"Part of your given name or your surname?"

"My surname, Mr. Bennet."

"Fitzwilliam Darcy. How odd." Mr. Bennet frowned intently. "I believe I recall my sister-in-law mentioning some Darcys where she lived. Do you by any chance live at Pemberley Manor?"

William's face brightened. "Yes, I do! However did your sister-in-law come of know of my family? – If you will please excuse my prying, Mr. Bennet." He looked at Elizabeth, who was intently stalking a bird on the grounds like a little white cat, crouched as she crawled forward, with Jane silently standing behind her.

"Madeleine married my wife's brother, but she was originally from Lambton. A bookseller's daughter, I believe she said she was." Mr. Bennet winced as he realized that his honesty might taint the Gardiners, and him and his daughters by association. "I apologize for my frankness, but my sister- and brother-in-law are very good people, certainly with more sense and tact than most of the gentry of my acquaintance; you would like them very much, given what I know of you."

William had already stiffened. "I am certain I would, sir."

"Fitzwilliam!" The same voice from earlier came from the trees on the left, and a moment later Elizabeth got her wish. An older man, perhaps thirty or so, strode out of the wilderness on the left of the park, undoubtedly Master Darcy's father. His hair was the exact same shade of dark brown as his son's and Elizabeth's, but his eyes were very dark, almost black. His features almost exactly matched William's, but his nose was just a tad longer, and his forehead perhaps a bit broader. He was more than two heads taller than his son, reaching about six feet of height and an additional inch or two. Mr. Bennet looked up from the son to the father. The top of William's head was level with his shoulder, and so he himself was about half a foot shorter than Mr. Darcy.

"Father!" William turned and went to stand by Mr. Darcy's side. "Mr. Bennet, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, this is my father, Mr. George Darcy."

Elizabeth's face brightened in comprehension. "Oh! Oh! Is that where you get the 'George' in your name?"

"Yes," father and son responded simultaneously. They stared at each other for a moment, and burst out laughing. Mr. Darcy ruffled his son's hair, and Master Darcy smiled admiringly at his father. Elizabeth smiled. "I like you, Mr. Darcy."

Mr. Darcy bowed. "And I you, Miss...?" He turned to his son for introductions.

"Oh. Father, this is Mr. Bennet, this little lady is Miss Jane Bennet, and the little one who likes you is my new friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet." William's face was already neutral, although his eyes were bright enough to contain a thousand smiles.

Mr. Darcy squatted on his heels so that he could be at Elizabeth's eye level, and held out his hand for the little girl to shake, which she did enthusiastically. "And I you, Miss Elizabeth."

"Thank you, sir," Elizabeth said shyly.

George Darcy pulled out his watch. "Fitzwilliam, we must return home. It is getting late, and I do not want to leave your mother alone with your sister at such an hour. Come, my son." William bowed to Mr. Bennet, but said, "Wait, Father." He knelt to Elizabeth's level. "Will you come here again tomorrow, at the same time you came today? I will be here. I want to play with you again." His eyes twinkled as he whispered conspiratorially, "I will bring my kite."

"Yes!" Elizabeth replied, grinning.

"Thank you!" William stood. "It is settled then. Tomorrow!" He waved one last time as he and his father walked away. As he watched, Mr. Bennet sounded amused. "It is a good thing your mother is not here to witness this; otherwise, she would begin to plan your wedding to this young man as soon as he was out of sight, eh?"

"Papa!" Elizabeth complained. "William is not _courting_ me!"

"I did not say so, Lizzy. I only said your mother would _think_ so."

"Let us go back to Aunt and Uncle's, Papa. I want to see if I can make a kite of my own!"

Mr. Bennet laughed. "Very well, Lizzy, and if you cannot, I will either make or buy you one myself."

"Thank you Papa!" Elizabeth practically pranced out of her park with Jane smiling up at her father. "I think William is a sweet boy, Papa," Jane remarked. Mr. Bennet smiled at her. "Yes, he is. He will be a good friend to Lizzy, unlike the rest of us old folk!" He chuckled as Jane followed Elizabeth out of the park, and he himself ran after them to help them cross the street.

* * *

The next afternoon, Elizabeth was practically dragging her father through London to go back to the park. Tucked under her arm was a fair-sized butterfly kite that she had miraculously made – with her father's assistance, however little that assistance was. The reel was clutched possessively in her left hand as she employed her right with urging her father on.

"Lizzy, I can barely walk, stooped over like this," Mr. Bennet complained. Lizzy turned back to him, and with her usual lively impertinence, remarked, "Then maybe you should walk faster when you are not stooped over!" She let go of his hand and walked on, her small black shoes rapping out a sharp little staccato on the sidewalk. Today, Elizabeth wore a green frock with a hair-ribbon to match.

Mr. Bennet laughed as he jogged to keep up; today, Jane was out with the Gardiners to see some of the other parks. "Yes'm," he said obediently, which made Elizabeth laugh and walk all the faster. Finally they reached 'the park', as Elizabeth called it.

"Miss Elizabeth!" William's voice carried over the green of the park as he waved wildly from under the shade of the very same tree Elizabeth had climbed the previous day. Resting on the ground beside him was the big blue kite he owned.

"William! William!" Elizabeth ran over to him as fast as her legs would allow. She held up her kite proudly. "Look! I brought my kite that I made myself!"

William smiled delightedly. "Let me see," he said, as though examining children's kites was a thing he always did. He looked it over carefully, checking the string, the reel, the material, weighing it in his hands and testing the strength of the string. He handed it back to its owner with a smile. "I see you did a very good job. Did you tie this knot yourself?" He pointed at the sturdy diagonal lash around the two sticks of the kite frame.

Elizabeth nodded. "Although Papa taught me how the knot goes, and I had to repeat it, attempt after attempt, in order to get it right."

"Still, it is a surprising accomplishment in a child. I remember that I reached ten before I tried the knot myself." He leaned over and pointed out the expertly tied diagonal lash on his kite. "It took me three years to master it." He met Elizabeth's eyes, and she grinned. "Shall we fly them now?" she asked.

William licked one finger and held it up. "I think we should get out into the open now, for I feel a wind coming from... that direction!" He jumped up, pointing at the south, and he and Elizabeth raced each other to the tree directly across from theirs. Of course, Elizabeth won, no matter how fast William was.

William leaned against the tree trunk, panting. "I cannot – understand... how you can be... so fast – with a kite... under your arm!" he cried, the genuine nature of his heavy breathing apparent through his disjointed speech.

Elizabeth grinned impishly at him. "Come, William, I believe the wind has picked up enough for us to fly our kites!" She ran out onto the grass, letting her kite catch the wind.

She soon discovered that William had been practicing much, and was now better than her at kite-flying, for he winked, and told her, "Watch!" He steered the reel expertly, making his kite do a figure eight in the brisk afternoon breeze. Elizabeth stared at him in amazement, completely ignoring her own kite until William offered to teach her. She agreed happily, and the afternoon was spent in lessons and races.

* * *

A dishevelled Elizabeth pranced out of the park, clutching her father's fingers in one hand and her kite in the other. "May we go again tomorrow, Papa? William said we could meet him there!"

Mr. Bennet laughed at his little daughter's infectious joy. "Yes, of course, Lizzy, my girl." And so they did. Every day for a week, Elizabeth brought her kite to the park in order to fly and race with William. The young boy, amazingly, seemed to enjoy it as much as or even more than the little girl.

However, the next week, instead of her kite, Elizabeth had brought a strange-looking rock. It was a peculiar shade of green, with glittering specks embedded in it. "Whatever is that, Lizzy?" Mr. Bennet asked.

Elizabeth skipped along, eager to be able to play with her new friend, as she had also brought her skipping-rope. "It is a rock, Papa. A pebble from the garden."

Mr. Bennet sighed exasperatedly. "I meant, whatever is it for, Lizzy, my girl? I sincerely hope you do not intend to _throw_ it at young Master William!"

Elizabeth laughed merrily. "Of course not, Papa. William asked me to bring it because he said he would teach me a game today; he called it hoppy-scotch, whatever that is." Mr. Bennet burst out laughing at his daughter's frank answer. "It is hopscotch, my girl, not hoppy-scotch. Maybe I shall join you for a turn?"

Elizabeth stuck out her tongue. "You must let William have the first turn, Papa, if he wins our skipping-rope race! It is not fair that we have promised the winner the first turn and then you come along and ruin it all!"

"Yes, Miss Lizzy, I will let the winner have the first turn," Mr. Bennet answered.

"We are here!" Elizabeth announced, before running inside.

William stood at his usual place under the tree. He waved merrily as Elizabeth entered, and, apparently they had arranged a greeting between them, for they engaged in a rather complicated hand trick, at the end of which, to Mr. Bennet's astonishment, William stooped and, carrying his little friend easily, twirled her around in a brotherly fashion. Once he put her down, he ruffled her hair, and Elizabeth hugged his waist. To all appearances, they had been acquainted for years, when it had, in reality, been only a week.

Beside the young man stood a small sack, and a small stone, which was a dark blue. He had also brought a dagger, no doubt for scraping at the dry soil, and a brown skipping-rope.

Mr. Bennet walked over to listen to the boy explaining the rules of the game to his friend, and at last William stood up and unsheathed his boy's dagger. He drew three identical squares in the soil, then two squares side by side, then one more square, another pair, and lastly two squares and a semicircle at the end. He wrote numbers in the squares, then stood up and untied the sack, which was discovered to be full of bright-coloured sand. William filled in the lines with the sand, and brought out his skipping-rope. William and Elizabeth raced across the green and back again, with the longer-legged William winning as predicted. He took the first turn, and then Elizabeth took the next, while Mr. Bennet, true to his promise, took the last, but lost it due to his marker being thrown on the line between 3 and 4.

William gallantly offered Elizabeth the next turn. "Would you take the next turn? My marker appears to be lost." He scrabbled in the dirt for it, and had already found it even before Elizabeth had started hopping. Still, he sat down and pretended to be looking for it. When Elizabeth was finished he stopped his charade, and took his turn, passing the afternoon quite agreeably.

* * *

At the end of the game, it was the surer-footed Elizabeth who had 'initialled' the most squares, and so she won. William laughingly presented her with his forfeit: his beautiful marker. Elizabeth countered with a teasing demand to be put in the tree, but was astonished when her friend actually complied with her request, roaring with laughter as he set her onto the highest branch he could reach. She pelted him with small blossoms, which he dodged. William mockingly scolded her, then brought her down.

It was getting on to nightfall, and, yawning, Elizabeth bid her friend goodbye before rushing up to her father, being lifted onto his shoulder, and promptly falling asleep.

* * *

 **Author's note: 'Initialled': In an older variation of hopscotch, when a player completed a turn (i.e. jumping from squares 1 to 10 in order, without falling or letting the trailing foot touch the ground) they would toss their marker at the diagram, whether random or chosen was up to the players. If it landed without bouncing or touching a line, the square it touched was a player's 'initialled' square, which meant that this square belonged to that player and all other players should avoid it for the rest of the game. This variation ended when all the squares were initialled.**

 **In this particular game, Mr. Bennet had initialled two squares, William had initialled three, and Elizabeth had beaten them both with five.**


	3. Of Loss and Love

All too soon, William was whisked away back to Eton, and Elizabeth, despite having spent only a few weeks with him, missed him terribly. Her father even caught her sobbing over her kite once, and when asked what the matter was, she replied that she did not want to fly her kite because William was not there. Her friendship with Fitzwilliam Darcy blossomed through her letters to him, disguised as letters from her father that the benevolent George Darcy forwarded to his son. Driven by the compassion and kindness of childhood and fuelled by the devotion with which Elizabeth loved her sisters and William loved his own, their relationship could do nothing but prosper.

Elizabeth was seven years old, however, when a tragedy occurred that nearly ripped William from her.

It was during one of the summer weeks they had been given before William had to return to Eton. Elizabeth had seen his face; before he saw her, his face was always sombre and sad. However, when he played with her, everything seemed forgotten. Due to her perceptions, she confronted him two days afterwards.

They had been swinging from the tree branch, and were now sitting quite comfortably in the tree, with Elizabeth perched on William's knee, there having been no room for a separate seat.

"William!" she insisted, her arms akimbo in that fashion children use. "Tell me! What is wrong? You are always so sad!" She burrowed under his arm. "And we promised to always tell each other everything!"

William sighed. "Very well. Lizzy…" he trailed off, as though afraid to speak the words, "…my mother is ill. Gravely ill."

Elizabeth looked up at him in shocked sympathy. "Why?" Since she knew that someone being close to her always helped her in times of distress, she snuggled under his arm and traced patterns on his hand, the way Jane always did when she was upset. William was not looking at her, his eyes lost in the depth of the trees. He seems so much older now, Elizabeth mused.

William sighed again, in a sombre manner unused to a mere fourteen-year-old. "After Georgiana was born, she was never as strong as she once was... and last winter, she caught a cold that she could not shake off. It has worsened." The sob he choked back was evidence of the devotion many boys hold for their mothers, and which, for this boy, was so much deeper than most boys' because he was so much more reticent, so much more cautious of his feelings. "I fear losing her, Elizabeth," he said hoarsely.

Elizabeth tried to think what it would be like if she lost her father, who was her dearer parent. She tried to imagine a world without him, and with the wave of emotion that rolled over her, she understood her friend's grief at the mere thought of his mother's death. She reached for his other hand and began to trace on it as well. "Then ride the fear, William. Let it control you for a while, then let it recede and enjoy what time you have with your mama before you have to lose her, even if it is not now," she said carefully, looking earnestly into his blue eyes. She was being serious for a seven-year-old.

He laughed sadly and stroked her hair in that peculiar way he had. "When did you become so wise, Lizzy? Very well, I will." Then he did something he had never done before. He drew her close to him, and kissed the top of her head. "But I believe I will enjoy my time with you as well, my friend, before time takes me away from you again. Come on!" He jumped down, his former life returning. "I will race you to that tree and back, and if I cannot beat you, I promise, you can fly my kite all afternoon!"

Sombre thoughts left behind in the tree, Elizabeth jumped down and joined her friend in dashing across the park.

However, when William was not in his usual place three days later, Elizabeth searched for him, and an hour later found him, in a secluded corner of the park. He was sprawled on the grass, his eyes closed, but the tear tracks down his face and his pink nose confirmed her worst fears. "William!" she cried, flinging herself down beside him. "Has it happened? Oh no!"

She dared not voice what 'it' was; she was sensitive to her friend's deep grief, as well as loath to mention the word 'dead'. A child never likes to openly admit that a life can be cruelly ended, and, for many, cut in half.

William opened his eyes. Elizabeth saw that they were still tearful and red-rimmed, and she, abandoning any notion of propriety, took out her handkerchief and cleaned his sticky face. "There," she concluded. "Now you can cry better, and talk to me."

William looked at her gratefully. "How did you ever learn me so quickly, Elizabeth?" He smiled wanly, and his hands clenched as his grief heaved inside him again, and he sat up, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed. Elizabeth sat back-to-back with him, giving him the freedom to exile himself to grief for a moment, and simply trying to give him the comfort of another person's warmth and closeness.

"It did happen, Lizzy," he said, regaining his composure. "Yesterday, Father and I were attending my mother, when suddenly she simply took Father's hand, looked at him, and she was…– _hic_ – gone. Just like that." He hiccupped. "Sorry... I must be a – _hic_ – awful sight." He continued to hiccup. "I am so sorry!" he cried, ashamed.

Elizabeth, for all her teasing ways, could never tease a person in real distress, and so continued to wipe away his tears, saying determinedly, "You must learn some of my philosophy, William, since I resolve to only look on the past as it gives me pleasure." She dropped onto her knees and stared up at him, her chocolate eyes melting into him. "Never forget your mama, William, never, ever, _ever_ ," she stated, with all the conviction of a seven-year-old. "Never forget when she read to you, when she took you outside to see her gardens, or when she gave you your new bracelet." She tapped the gold-link bracelet with 'Fitzwilliam' on it on a gold plaque. "Never forget your birthdays and when she would play with you and your father on all your birthdays. Never forget when she introduced you to your sister. Always remember those moments, William!" She smiled a little as her tone switched to teasing. "Or I shall be very displeased with you."

William chuckled a bit, still hiccupping, but with less frequency. "Thank you, Lizzy," he said, doing as he had done three days prior, drawing her into his lap and kissing the top of her head. "I value your advice highly."

"How droll that is!" Elizabeth remarked. "For a boy – an almost-grown-up boy – to trust in the judgement of a little girl half his age! Is it not, Master Darcy?" she inquired. She was successful in her task: he smiled a little. "That is because you have grown so very dear to me, Elizabeth," he said softly, "almost as much as my dear little sister."

Elizabeth smiled much more softly than was her usual wont, and she cuddled him for a second. That was high praise indeed. His sister was the thing he ranked second best in his boyish heart, right after his father. To be third in his estimation touched even a seven-year-old's heart greatly. "After only a year!"

"Little Lizzy," he said. "Seven years might not be enough for one to form a proper acquaintance, let alone a friendship, while seven hours would be enough for some others. The length of a relationship does not matter if it is honest and true."

Elizabeth giggled as she got up and skipped around him. "You have grown very wise as well, Master Darcy."

Before he left, they had their first gift exchange.

They met in the park as usual, but Elizabeth could tell William was hiding something. She played along, for in reality all she wanted was an opportunity to give him her present for the summer holidays.

After flying their kites, William, who was sprawled on the ground, said, sombrely, "Elizabeth, I have something for you."

"What is it?"

William smiled and produced a carefully woven flower crown. Elizabeth was amazed. She had never taught him to make one, and yet she had woven many a crown for him during their weeks in summer. Perhaps he had learned from his mother? The wreath, at any rate, was beautiful. The flowers were the wildflowers of the park, woven cunningly in and out of the branch circle. The leaves were twined around the branches, and the whole thing smelt of fresh sap and dew. He had made it recently, most likely that very morning! "Oh, William, thank you!" she cried, as he set the crown upon her head.

"Quite, my lady," he said with amusement, sketching his perfect bow and dropping to one knee.

"It is beautiful!" She stopped and shyly produced a package. "I have something for you, too."

Elizabeth could tell that her friend was touched; he placed his hand on her head, his own peculiar brotherly gesture to her and her alone. "Thank you, Lizzy."

She giggled in spite of herself. "But you have not even opened it yet!"'

He smiled, and said seriously, "I do not need to open it to know that it is a gift you have spent time on, Elizabeth, so I thank you. I know you have other things on your mind, like your new little sister and your other friends, so... thank you, for taking a little time for me."

It turned out to be a grass bracelet, woven with a sweet smelling grass that reminded William of fresh hay from Pemberley's stables, as well as hint of vanilla. In addition, it had two pieces of cotton grass woven into it, so the fluffy seedheads hung from the reed cords that tightened the bracelet. He slipped it on his left wrist and tightened the cords. "Elizabeth... thank you. This is amazing!"

Elizabeth laughed. "But that is not all."

Curious, William peeked into the package again. In the paper nestled a drawing of him, done very well for a seven-year-old. He was dressed in his usual coat and breeches, but in this drawing he wore one of her wreaths around his head and he had a happy expression.

"Lizzy, thank you!" he said. "Thank you."

Elizabeth giggled. "That must be the millionth time you have said that in the past half hour."

"I mean it, Elizabeth Bennet," he insisted.

That Christmas, Elizabeth Bennet received a very happy surprise in the form of her first real letter from her dearest friend. His thin, loopy handwriting usually only filled a sentence or two, but this letter was a full page and a bit long, covered in William's meticulously even lines.

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _I wish I could play with you today. Snow has never looked so inviting, especially since Georgiana is old enough to ride in the sleigh with me and Father. Speaking of Father... sadly, he still has not recovered enough from Mother's death to continue as normal. I find myself having to shoulder some of the duties of the Master of Pemberley, even though I am only the heir. Truly, I feel grown up now... and I like it not at all! I have no free time for myself, no time to spend with my sister, and barely any with my father. My studies at Eton take up most of my time, then I must address the most urgent of Mr. Wickham's letters._

 _I forgot to mention, Lizzy, that Mr. Wickham is the father of George Wickham. Yes, my father's godson. If you find yourself wondering why a steward would ask his employer to be godfather to his son, well, you need only look into the deep rapport shared by the elder Wickham and my father in years gone by. Mr. Wickham shares my worry for my father and indeed helps me very much by explaining what I cannot understand in simple terms enough. I am greatly indebted to him._

 _My studies, as I said, take up most of my time, my schoolwork some of the rest, and the duties that I have assumed devour the last bit. It is in a lull today that I take up my pen and write to you. Believe me, I look forward to spending my summer holiday afternoons with you. School is far from boring, what with all the learning I have been doing of late - but sometimes I wish I was back in London with you and Georgie._

 _Elizabeth, there are so many stories I have yet to acquaint you with about the boys I meet at Eton. There is, of course, George Wickham, as well as my Fitzwilliam cousins Alex and Richie. There was the funniest incident at luncheon yesterday, between George and Alex. George was running to his table, and tripped near that of Cousin Alex, and his glass of milk ended up giving Alex a rather... milky... shower! Alex was furious, and was determined to challenge 'the cad' on the spot. Luckily Richie and I managed to knock some sense into him before he could call George out. Still, Alex looked as livid as though his sister had been killed. I thought I might die of laughter tonight._

 _I wonder whether or not I have a problem with my social skills and speech._

 _I can never converse easily with people I have never met before, and words such as these come more easily to paper than they do to my struggling lips, Lizzy. Is something wrong with me? And when I am playing with Georgie or you everything sharpens and brightens in color, and my hearing is keener and my eyesight is clearer than before._

 _I wish, again, that I could see you before my summer holiday, but alas, Eton only allows its students four weeks off a year. How tall will you have grown by then? I wonder what other accomplishments you will have added to your list, Lizzy, besides flying a kite, tying a diagonal lash, and comforting me._

 _I have enclosed my gift to you in this letter. I fear that it will be rather wilted, but there is an additional gift in the cylinder box you have received. I hope you like it. Georgie's governess was unsuccessfully trying to teach her how to make it, until I expressed my interest in making such presents for my dearest family and friends. You, my dear friend, are just that: a friend so dear that I feel you are family already._

 _I must get back now; and I will only add, God bless you and Merry Christmas, Elizabeth!_

 _Your inwardly merry friend,_

 ** _William_**

Elizabeth curiously opened her envelope to reveal a few small pressed flowers of the wildflower kind she had seen in the park, the kind of flowers he had woven into her crown (which now resided in her jewellery box with her most prized possessions). She also opened the cylinder box; it contained a small vial of lavender scent. Thankful that William understood her favour of the flower, she smiled happily at the thought of having such a thoughtful friend.

Since she was just learning how to write letters, she dictated them to her father, who wrote them down and then presented his work for her to copy onto another sheet. It would take all morning, but it was worth it for William.

 _Dear William,_

 _Thank you for the lavender! You really know me very well; it is my favourite flower, except for those wildflowers you sent me. I recognized them as the same kind you wove into my crown, you sneaky little thing! Although I should probably not call you little, seeing as you are still almost double my height and all arms and legs now, I have no doubt._

 _Really? Did many people see it? Alex must have looked very vexed indeed if it could almost kill you with laughter simply thinking about it! You really must play-act it with Richie sometime, or perhaps request Cousin Alex to feign his humiliation and anger. I would like to see it, William._

 _George Wickham? That boy? The one you always talk about when we tumble about on the grass? The one who always steals your hat? I do not think I like him, William. Perhaps you should introduce me in person, and then I can judge for certain. I am sorry if this causes you pain, William, but I only think that a boy who repeatedly steals your hat and cravat must be a very naughty one, and must be taken to task harshly._

 _It's quite alright; knowing how one's studies can occupy one's mind, I shall not criticize you._ _I must return to my lesson with Papa, who is trying to teach me my sums. I admit, I find them quite intriguing. Am I so abnormal as to like arithmetic when my sisters dislike it so?_

 _Speaking of abnormal, there is nothing wrong with you, William Darcy! You are merely disparaging yourself (that was my word for the day – what do you think?) too harshly. I want you to know that you are simply very shy and reserved and there is nothing wrong with that! Your senses are heightened because you are having fun, and no, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with you! A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but, William Darcy, you are a wonderful person and a great friend and an excellent brother! I tell you that if you disagree, when I meet you next summer I will slap some sense into you! I wish you could be here._

 _Since your mother's death, Christmas might be a bit painful for you and your father in the familiar surroundings. I wish you could come here for the winter and celebrate with us – the Bennet family Christmas is at least never quiet, I can tell you that! Neither is it overly boisterous, though I think you would disagree. At any rate, the snow is falling, and I can hear my father singing 'Deck the Halls'. It is his favourite! What Christmas song is yours, William?_

 _Merry Christmas, William, to you and all your family, Mr. Darcy, Georgiana, the Matlocks, and the formidable Lady Catherine included! But most of all to you, my dearest friend!_

 _Your merry little friend,_

 ** _Elizabeth_**

Having written the letter, Elizabeth ran to join her father to hang the decorations on the tree, play with her sisters and the new baby, Lydia, and sing Christmas carols at the top of her lungs until her Mama fondly shrieked that Lizzy was trying her nerves. She felt happy and fulfilled, and wanted for nothing more. Perhaps it was because she had seen both sides of life, of dark and light, and had such a good friend as William and such a good teacher as her father to tell her of life's lessons: of history and arithmetic, of joy and sadness, and of loss and love. When William had lost his mother, there had been loss, but it was Christmas and her birth of the Christ-child, and now it was time for love.


	4. Of Men and Women

Letters from the earlier records of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet:

 _Twelfth Night  
Eton College_

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _Twelfth Night celebrations were breathtaking to say the least, although they were very quiet. One day I shall have to come to Longbourn with you and experience a Bennet Christmas. Then you must come to Pemberley and discover what a Darcy Christmas is like. Do not worry, I have written to both my father and Georgiana - not that she can read yet, but my father will read it to her - and sent them presents._

 _I am so glad you liked your gift, and - you really are a sly little girl to send me a gift without telling me! Yet you know me so well; I shall treasure this penknife and pen for the rest of my life. Also, I think 'Much Ado About Nothing' a great addition to the Darcy library - and to mine. Neither Father nor I had noticed that that was the Shakespeare play we were missing, and we shall be very grateful - indeed, I already am. Tell me, have you seen it yet? If so, tell me how you liked it; if not, then read it! I am sure your father will help you over the more difficult words and phrases. Having read all of Shakespeare, he will no doubt know what the playwright means by his peculiar turns of phrase. Speaking of turns of phrase, 'disparaging' is a huge jump for a seven-year-old, Lizzy. Continue to expand your vocabulary, please; I look forward to sparring with you when I return._

 _Benedick and Beatrice are the ones to watch for, at any rate; the dialogue between them is such a merry war that I find myself reading it over and over again._

 _Excuse me until my next letter, Elizabeth; I have promised to go carolling with Richie and the other boys, and I am surprised to find myself looking forward to it. I dearly love to sing, and our carolling at Pemberley was always the highlight of the Christmas holidays for us, especially Christmas Eve, Christmas itself, and Twelfth Night. Tomorrow, the thirteenth night from Christmas, is the day of Epiphany and Twelfth Day. Tonight is when the Magi visited the Christ-child, and it feels special, because it is such a cool, blissful night and I received all the letters I had been written for Christmas! Father was very expressive, Georgiana was adorable, and you... well, I look forward to receiving more letters from you, if you will continue to write. By the way, my favourite Christmas carol is 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'. I really am merry this Christmas, though some people say it does not show. But you especially are one of the people I can say help me rest merry, my faithful friend._

 _I realize that the nature of this letter is very rambling, and it must be hard for you to read my tight cursive. I really must get my nose out of my books and find something that would interest you. A drawing of the view outside my window, perhaps? The ice on the branches is really very beautiful, even at night. My sketching skills are not nearly at the level of yours, but I shall try. I shall also ask Richie to draw it in color. His drawings, I must say, are an example for me._

 _Your bookish friend,_

 ** _William_**

 _January 8  
Longbourn, Hertfordshire_

 _Dear William,_

 _Twelfth Night passed very agreeably, thank you. Papa says he may take me to see 'Much Ado About Nothing' sometime this January! Does it end happily? I know my father says so, but he clearly enjoys the play very much, and when he enjoys something and wants me to share in it, he will bend the truth. I do so hate sad endings; it makes me feel so unsatisfied._

 _We have a copy, though, and I must say I enjoy the dialogue very much! Papa read as Benedick and all the male parts, and I took on most of the female parts, with Jane to act as Hero. We have not reached the end yet, but we will in another week or two!_

 _By the way, Lydia spoke for the first time today! I thought Mama would go out of her mind with joy when Lydia squealed, "Twee!" at the Christmas tree. She is not a year old, and is already following her older sisters! I must inform you, William, that we all had at least ten words in our vocabulary by age one! We all gave her a special treat by singing her favourite song: 'O Come, All Ye Faithful' all together. I have never felt so loved, William, than with Jane and Kitty on either side of me, Papa bouncing me on his knee, Mama cooing with delight, Lydia beaming like the sun, Mary singing like a songbird, and you sending me the longest letters you can! Christmas would truly be complete for me when you come to Longbourn for Christmas!_

 _Your hopeful little friend,_

 ** _Elizabeth_**

 _January 13  
Eton College_

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _Thank you for your last letter. It is comforting to know that some person cares about me in this swirl of studying and sleeping. I feel like demands are being heaped upon my back, weighing me down. In fact, Richie asked me if I had been slouching so much lately. I had not realized that I was stooping so low… I simply felt so weary lately. Your letters bring light to my dreary life here at Eton; thank you. I only have to see your handwriting on a piece of paper and I smile._

 _Examinations are looming over me, and I study as hard as I can, and I love learning… but even I feel worn down by all the stress and demands upon my time recently. Father is withdrawing deeper and deeper into his shell, and there is nothing I can do about it. Georgie is always depressed now, and it is taking a toll on me. I try not to complain, but I must vent my feelings somewhere, and you are always so understanding, my little friend._

 _But I am not trying to use you as a vent for all my personal problems. Indeed, I treasure our friendship more than ever._

 _Unfortunately, this is the last letter I will be able to write for quite some time. Until summer, then, perhaps? Please bring your kite, Lizzy!_

 _Your exhausted friend,_

 ** _William_**

* * *

 _April 7  
Longbourn, Hertfordshire_

 _Dear William,_

 _Happy birthday!_

 _I hope you are not too miserable at Eton. After all, you will still have to go to university, will you not? Complaining of school now will not help you later. There, now I have got the scolding out of the way; it is time for the rest._

 _You are fifteen now. I can hardly believe that we are so near adulthood: it is only three years from now that you will reach eighteen and begin attending more social functions. Please do not let your high status and rank come between your friends and you. If only people will look, there is no great difference between the aristocracy and the tradesmen, or the tenants and the gentry. Do not be offended, William, but I believe that all people are equal. You and I, your father and mine, and my sister and yours. Never think yourself more than someone else. I have seen what comes of it: contempt, distance, and animosity. I would dread it if you ever became one of those people and shun me!_

 _Lydia is walking – well, actually, running – everywhere, and Mama complains that she will go out of her mind with nerves. I agree with her, Lydia is so high-spirited and lively that she is easily getting into scrapes, and I am at my wits' end whenever I am asked to watch her. William, what am I to do? Jane fondly reminds me that I act so old-ladylike around Lydia that she may start thinking I_ _ **am**_ _an old lady!_

 _Mary has started the pianoforte, and the tunes she bangs out on the keys are jarring to hear, not to mention mournful in sound! I am no pianist, but I know that when one hits random keys, one hits minor chords or discordant notes more often than not! Please advise me if you can, for I am driven to distraction! I am sorry for being so serious, but all my wit sounds so bland on paper. Or, rather, looks bland._

 _Papa has sealed up my kite; you know I never like to fly it unless you are there. I wish it was May already! Then you would be here and we could fly our kites and run all afternoon!_

 _Your troubled friend,_

 ** _Elizabeth_**

 _April 12  
Eton College_

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _Thank you ever so much for your present! You cunning little lass, letting me believe you had somehow lessened your regard for me, then giving me such a present! I must say, your sketching skills are certainly improving. Perhaps I should ask your father to engage a master for your instruction; if it is beyond his means, then_ _ **I**_ _will._

 _Indeed, it is only three years before I must become Mr. Darcy in earnest. Do not worry, Lizzy, you will always be my dear Elizabeth, and I will always be only William to you. And no, my friend – for I cannot in truthfulness call you 'little' anymore – I will never willingly and consciously shun you. Unknowingly, most reluctantly, yes, but never of my own free will and with my eyes open._

 _As for Lydia, simply engage her in interesting games like we play: chase, hopscotch, skipping-rope, kite-flying, and so on. That way you know where she is, and she is occupied and not squirming. Georgie was not like this, but I certainly was! I asked my father about a hypothetical situation like this, and he laughed and said that to keep a squirming child occupied, tire them out. I asked him how he knew this, and he pointed out that I had been such a squirming child during my youngest years._

 _Mary will simply outgrow the banging stage. Georgie herself is in that state, and my father complains that he can hardly have a moment of peace in the house, what with all the business to be finalized, my upcoming holiday, and Georgiana banging the life out of Mother's pianoforte. I wonder why he would say such to me, me being in that state myself so as to be utterly unsympathetic. I cannot take his whining much longer, Lizzy. I am not even half his age, and I have gone for two years under this stress without whining to him about my problems. Although I must admit my actual confidante is superior to my father in many ways._

 _I cannot pretend to understand how you feel, Elizabeth, but feel free to confide in me all your hopes, dreams, despairs, and fears, just as I have with mine. I am always open to you, and I will try not to shut you out. Georgiana may be my sister, but I can never confide in her the way I do you._

 _There is something I must tell you, Elizabeth. We are growing up; you are almost eight now, and I am fifteen. Soon we will no longer be able to spend so many afternoons simply doing nothing. However much I would like to spend time with you – and believe me, I like it immensely – I am almost a man now, and, though young, you have the concerns of a woman. All that is left is for you to start fending off suitors, is it not?_

 _The world's cares and concerns aside, I would jump at the chance to spend an afternoon flying my kite with you._

 _Your grown-up friend,_

 ** _William_**

* * *

 _May 21  
Longbourn, Hertfordshire_

 _Dear William,_

 _Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, for your birthday gift! The puppy is so adorable, and I have chosen to name her Victoria. What do you think? Thank you so much!_

 _Although you have done so much for me – advising Papa on my drawing master (here is a sketch I have made recently, just for you), playing with me throughout the summer, and sending me Victoria – I am still somewhat disappointed that you did not send me a letter. I understand if you do not have the time, but you are so important to me that it hurts all the same. I am sorry, but I can no more help it than I can help breathing!_

 _Oh, William, I miss summer. You always seem so carefree around me, so boyish and happy. I want you to remain that way. Not ignorant of your duties, not undutiful, but content and willing to enjoy the time you have._

 _Remember what I said once about spending time with your mama before she passed away? William, I reiterate it. Not that either one of us is likely to die soon, but that I do not want our friendship to wane away to nothing like most friendships stretched over long distances do._

 _William, do not let yourself get caught up in the mundane cares of the wealthy world. That is my warning, my dearest friend. Please._

 _Your worried friend,_

 ** _Elizabeth_**

* * *

 _December 23  
Longbourn, Hertfordshire_

 _Dear William,_

 _Merry Christmas! It shall be Christmas by the time you receive this, so Merry Christmas, William!_

 _William, what is wrong? You are so pensive all the time, and you never write me anymore! Is it something with your new friend Charles? Is it your cousins, or aunts, or uncle? You promised to confide in me, and I in you, but now, all I can think of is how sad you look all the time. From the looks of it, someone will die soon, and I want to know who it is!_

 _I do not want to sound curious or prying, but I am concerned about you, William! You are so pale nowadays, and you eat hardly anything. You sleep half the time and stare listlessly for the rest. Please, please, talk to me! I want to help you. William, you have barely written me since I was eight years old, and now I am twelve and a half!_

 _I know we still meet at the park, but you are miles away at times, and you refuse to address the subject of your not writing. Should I be worried? – that is a rhetorical question as I am worried anyway, but William, you know you can talk to me._

 _Your nearly frantic friend,_

 ** _Elizabeth_**

* * *

 _March 27  
Longbourn, Hertfordshire_

 _Dear William,_

 _Please. Come back to me. You are becoming your father all over again. You are retreating into your shell, and you will let no one see you. Please, William, let me in. I am so afraid that you will go completely in, shut everyone down, and never come back out. Please, don't do that, please!_

 _Your sincerely frantic friend_ ,

 ** _Elizabeth_**

* * *

 **AN: Obviously if I listed every one of their letters it would fill more than a dozen books, those kids must've written hundreds!**


	5. Somewhere Along In the Bitterness

**This chapter's title is an exception to my naming rule because of a line from 'How to Save a Life' by The Fray. You'd have to understand that William has some serious issues going on with his life at the moment, and he feels unequal to the task. In order to see his side of this story, visit my (now outdated) four-shot 'So Beautiful It Makes You Want to Cry'.**

 **Also, for amped emotion, play the the Nightcore version of 'How To Save A Life' by The Fray! It channels the emotions of their confrontation at the end.**

* * *

Elizabeth's heart pounded in her throat as she approached the park. William's missive had been short, direct, and troubling:

 _Dear Elizabeth_

 _Please come to the park next week. I have something to tell you, my dearest friend._

 ** _William_**

She rounded the corner and pushed open the gate. In spite of – or perhaps because of – her worry, she was very curious. William had only written occasional letters, on her birthday or Christmas or other special days, since she was eight, and she was now fourteen. Elizabeth was almost out of her mind with concern when she thought about William – and she thought about him very much these days. His face was more sallow and much paler, and his proud shoulders were bowed. He now seemed much older than simply one-and-twenty.

He was sitting in their usual rendezvous point: the tree. William was dressed in all blue except for his shirt, cravat, and breeches, and it was a very dark, sombre blue, bringing out his sallow face even more. Elizabeth climbed up beside him and sat next to him, smoothing down her green frock.

William did not seem to notice her. His cerulean blue eyes were clouded and half-closed. His features were too pale. His gaze was fixed on the ground, lazily and gloomily.

Elizabeth touched his arm. "William?"

He raised his tired eyes to her, and his face instantly brightened. "Elizabeth!" He raised his hand, but jerked it back. "You actually came."

"Of course I came, you silly boy!" Elizabeth slapped his arm. "Did you think I would not? _Of course_ I would! Looking the way you do, I can feel nothing but concern for you whenever I see you!"

William sighed. "I thought you would not come because I was being the exact opposite of what I promised to be. I promised to confide in you, and it has been six years since I even wrote to you. I feel so guilty."

"Spit it out, William," Elizabeth said bluntly. "You have been a recluse for six years, and now it is my turn to yank you out of your shell." She seized his cold face and made him look at her. "You will not become your father. You will never become your father, if I can help it!"

William smiled, but there was a sad pucker to his eyebrows. "That's my bold Elizabeth." He shifted out of her grip and said, "I did not write to you because I was very busy. It was only at the end of the day that I realized that I had not written. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," Elizabeth said briskly. "Now, I need you to tell me everything."

William sighed again. "My father fell ill not long after my last letter to you, and in and out of illness after that. I had to shoulder more and more of the Master's duties. My days have been so full that I only realized at the end of them that I had not written to you. I have never been as glad of your stubbornness as now, my little friend. Thank you for persisting," he finished, leaning down and kissing the top of her head as he had when she was a little girl of seven. Elizabeth had missed his touch so much that when he pulled away, she snuggled close to him as she had when a girl of nine. "I missed you so much, William," Elizabeth said, her voice as soft as possible without whispering.

"As I missed you, Beth," he said softly, his eyes half-closed again. The sombre air fell on them, enveloping them, so that Elizabeth felt as gloomy as William must be feeling. He did not sit as stiffly as he used to do; instead, his body burned hot under his clothes even while his fingers and face were freezing. Elizabeth wondered what could disturb him so much.

"What is bothering you, William?"

"I cannot tell you; it would excite your pity and compassion, and I would not wish for you to do something out of compassion for me." William straightened. "I have brought my dagger and my new marker, and the sand. Would you like to play?"

Gloominess forgotten, Elizabeth jumped down and pulled her friend down. "Yes! Where is it?"

Four games followed, with each of the two winning two games. He vaulted to his feet and began to chase her through the secluded area of the park that held so many memories for them, both roaring with laughter the whole time.

Elizabeth snatched William's forgotten hat from the ground and dangled it in front of his face. "Tsk, tsk, Master Darcy!" she teased. "Running and chasing like a child! What would your father say?"

William, now flushed with exercise, panted out, "He… would… approve of… his stodgy… son… running a bit…" He sat down under the tree.

"La!" Elizabeth plopped his hat awkwardly on his head. "You? Stodgy? Preposterous!" She slid down from the tree and seized his shoulders in an iron grip. "William Darcy, who fed you that nonsense?" It took him a moment to realize that she was not joking, and he said, seriously, "I did."

Elizabeth shook him. "How did you think of that? You are most certainly not dull!"

"Compared to you, I am," he said. "You are so lively and outgoing, and witty. It all comes naturally to you. My social skills are becoming more and more of a problem. I know my own abilities, but in this new situation, I am so afraid. All my shortcomings are brought into focus by my responsibilities."

He leaned against the tree. "I support so many people, but I need someone to lean on as well. No matter what people think, I am a person, and I feel as much emotion as everyone. My stony mask does not deceive you, Lizzy, and I am so glad it does not." He impulsively leaned forward and put his forehead on Elizabeth's shoulder. "My dearest friend."

For the past few years Elizabeth had confided in her friend about her emotions, her anger, and all her insecurities. To be his support felt… very good. She reached up and stroked his dark hair as though he was still a weary, stressed boy of sixteen. Her arms went around his neck and her cheek against his hair.

To her astonishment, something began to soak her shoulder. A shaking breath came from her friend, and she realized that William was crying. Her shoulder quickly dampened as a dam seemed to break inside the formal Master Darcy, and he receded back to the familiar William. The suffering and stress leaked out of the boy through his tears into Elizabeth, and she took it from him and released it to the skies.

She held him while he wept, and Elizabeth nuzzled into his hair, pouring her heart into his as he shared his with her. For she loved him in all the ways a girl can love a boy who has been her brother, her hero, and her dearest friend.

After some time, he straightened, his eyes red. "Thank you, Elizabeth," he said hoarsely. "Thank you."

Elizabeth smiled happily up at him. "At long last you are back to life."

William smiled back. "Thanks to you." He paused a bit. "I apologize for your dress. I might have ruined it."

"That's quite alright, William, as long as we are best friends again."

Elizabeth thought his face would split from his huge grin. "Best friends again." He frowned thoughtfully. "You smell like lavender."

* * *

Elizabeth threw down his hat. "We really must stop playing like children. I am fifteen and almost out now, and you are two-and-twenty and a man!"

William laughed merrily as he jammed on his hat. "At least it takes our minds off of our mundane cares, correct?" His face fell. "It takes my mind off of my father's illness. Lizzy, the doctors do not think he can live another twelvemonth. I feel so helpless… you know how I feel." His mood seemed to have shifted so completely that it seemed he had been always sad and sombre. He looked up at her sadly. "I have already lost my mother, must I now lose my father? I am barely a man, and now I must be orphaned. But it is not I for whom I fear." He leaned against the tree trunk, hiding his face in his arm. "Georgiana is but eleven years old, and she has never known her mother. Must she lose her father as well? I am her brother, but I will have to act as both her mother and her father. Will I do it well enough? I cannot say."

"You will be wonderful, William."

"I do not know, Elizabeth, I do not know." He raised his weary face. "I am so afraid, my dearest friend, so afraid."

* * *

After that, there were no more park meetings, no more letters from William. Elizabeth thought his father must have died, and he must have space, so she gave him space. But a year passed, and no communication from William came. Once, on a visit to her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, she passed him in the streets of London, but he was cold and distant, no more the William she knew than any other man on the street. His greeting was proper and formal, not at all like his warm hugs whenever they met at the park. Nothing like the welcoming smile he had always given her graced his stiff features.

But there had been something in his eyes, something raw and guilty, that made her want to hug him again, to ask him what the matter was. As he handed her back up into the carriage, his hand was icy cold, but his eyes flashed with something like loss and regret.

So, on October 15, Elizabeth was determined to find out the matter. She convinced her Uncle Gardiner to come with her to Grosvenor Square, since William was, by now, graduated from Cambridge. She found Darcy House and her uncle sent up his calling card.

Surprisingly, the servant ushered them into the parlour, and William himself emerged. He looked ill-prepared to receive visitors, so why had he received her and her uncle? Elizabeth would have understood if he was not home to visitors that day.

She stood. "Mr. Darcy, I would like to speak with you. Alone," she added. William looked confused, but agreed, and led her up to a much cluttered study, uncharacteristic of his fastidious self.

She turned to him. "William, what is wrong? You never write, and we never meet at the park anymore!"

He blinked, sat at his desk and took a deep breath. "You would not understand," he said gently.

Her temper flared, fuelled by a year of frustration and loneliness. How could he insult her understanding – _he_ , who had so encouraged her to read and learn? "What would I not understand, Mr. Darcy?" she demanded. "Would I not understand your business requires your full attention? Would I not understand that your sister is but a child and must still be brought up? All of these I can understand – or are you merely insulting my intelligence?"

He looked shocked. "I would never do that! This matter is of a personal nature, and I do not think you would understand this particular concern of mine!"

"I apologize, sir, if my simple country mind cannot measure up to your sophisticated standards," she replied acidly. He had forgotten about her in the midst of his work and his life – without even a word – and he would pay the price. "After all, what is simple Miss Elizabeth Bennet to the illustrious Mr. Darcy?"

William struggled to his feet, desperation raging in his face and his shaking hands. "No! I never meant to imply that – I only meant that – that –" For the first time since she had met him, William was quite lost for words.

"How can you be so arrogant, William? How can you act so coldly to me when all can see us, yet allow our friendship free rein where none can intrude? Are you… are you ashamed of me?"

"No! No!" William cried, his voice cracking. "I would _never_ be ashamed of you! I only meant to protect you!"

"And you thought shunning me is protecting me? You, sir, are sadly mistaken!"

To see her using the same words to describe his actions as the words she used to warn him against them in the first place clearly wounded him. The sunlight glinting in his blue eyes looked like shards of broken glass.

"You have built walls of pride and arrogance, sir, thinking that I am a child to be protected!" Elizabeth's fury at William's coddling only grew, burning in her veins and her ears with white-hot certainty. Her knuckles cracked as she clenched her fists until the knuckles turned white. "You think your understanding so superior to my own that you did not even consult with me! After all this interest in my education, it is only because you are ashamed of having such a stupid friend!"

"That is not in the least true and you know it!" he cried. "I took interest in your education because you deserved to be the best you could be."

"And you are implying that I could not have been the best I could be if you had not interfered! Worse and worse, sir!"

"If you would stop interrupting me and listen!" he finally shouted, his hurt turning to anger.

"Am I an errant child that you should speak to me of listening? You are seven years my senior – that does not mean you can dictate my actions, particularly since you are only my friend and not my father! You overstep your bounds in your arrogance, Mr. Darcy!"

"Trying to help my dearest friend is arrogance, is it?" he thundered, the glass in his eyes shining as the shards fell in his tears. "Because I am not connected you by blood, my care for you is arrogance and overstepping my bounds?"

There was too big of a gulf for her to cross, and it stood between him and her. With a pang she realized that his world, which had always been separate from hers, was now alienated by the destruction of their bridge. And it was this man – this boy – this William that she had loved with all devotion of a girlish heart for a brother – a hero – a friend! It was upon his head that the price rested, upon his account that the debt fell!

"Simply because you act as father to your sister does not mean you can do the same to me, Darcy!" she screamed at him, using only his last name for the first time since they had met. It was a designation of indifference, of alienation. Hot, angry tears trickled down her cheeks, which she dashed away furiously. Overcome by rage and fury, she stamped her foot like she had not done since she was ten years old.

He stiffened, and his eyes dropped to the desk. "I believe we are finished here, Miss Elizabeth," he said coldly, choking on his own voice.

"It appears we are, Mr. Darcy," she said, her anger just barely reined in as she wiped her eyes and schooled her features.

He rang for a footman, who appeared not long after, although it seemed forever to the young man and woman. "Andrews, show Miss Bennet and Mr. Gardiner to the door, please." As a last goodbye, he walked over to her, took her feverishly burning hand in his icy cold one, and kissed it. "Farewell, Miss Bennet." As he straightened, he whispered, "I am not the same anymore."

Elizabeth's anger faded at the raw hurt in his eyes, but her reply was an equally cold "Farewell, Mr. Darcy." Then she turned and walked away, her heart jumping into her throat and her vision blurring.

As soon as Fitzwilliam Darcy heard the door close behind Elizabeth and her uncle, he tore out of his study, through the house, and to the wilderness in the garden that looked so much like that secluded area in the park. Here, he flung himself down on the grass, curled up into a ball, and wept as though his heart would break.


	6. Of Assemblies and Aquaintances

_Dear William,_

 _I apologize. I know I should not have said those things to you, but I was being irrational. I had a year of frustration and silence and it was driving me mad – you have to understand that I missed you very much. I was feeling hurt and rejected and you were the only person I could vent it on. I am honestly sorry that you should have been the target of my scathing tongue._

 _I meant none of those insults, William. Forgive me for my insensitivity._

 ** _Elizabeth_**

Had she said or done something wrong? Or had he counted her offense as truly unforgivable and resolved never to speak to her again?

October 15 was the most painful day of the year, because of William. She had fought with him and her stupid pride had created a rift between him and her. Neither of them had been completely blameless, of course, but she must bear the brunt of the blame.

And now, at twenty years, she was ashamed to say that she could no longer remember the sound of his voice or the exact features of his face as she used to be able to do. All she remembered of him was his brilliant smile that lit up every corner of his sparkling cerulean eyes and their idiosyncratic gold ring. She vaguely recalled that he had been tall, but then again she had been seven years his junior. He had been dark-haired, but so were many young gentlemen.

Many of his gifts had been burned – those that could be – in a ceremonial tribute to their friendship, which was now impossible to renew. He would be seven-and-twenty, and he was a rich landowner's son – she remembered that from the old days. He could never deign to reach out to a common country gentleman's daughter, let alone the second one in five.

However, she had never been able to bring herself to burn his letters. The affectionate words and the neat signature were too dear to her to allow her to cast them in the fire. She had instead bound them with ribbon and stored them in the very back of her drawer along with a long-empty vial of lavender.

At least this year had the Meryton Assembly for her distraction.

She stepped down and immediately went inside the assembly hall to search for Charlotte. Tonight sorrow would be forgotten, and she would get a glimpse and a chance to sketch Mr. Bingley and his character.

Elizabeth quickly reserved for herself and her friend a couple of chairs near the front of the room, that she might better see the new arrivals when they came. Leaving Mary to mind the seats, she mingled with some people and chatted with others, until the opening of the doors heralded more new attendees.

An unfamiliar ginger-headed gentleman in blue headed the line – Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth thought – with a lady in orange on his arm who could only be his sister, sharing the same features and curly ginger hair. The man's smile was disarming and amiable, while the woman's reminded Elizabeth of cold fish in the pond near Lucas Lodge. The couple behind him were obviously husband and wife; the man tended towards the portly side though he was reasonably tall, with brambly sideburns and brown clothes, and his wife was apparently another of Mr. Bingley's sisters, with ginger hair and the same embellished taste as her younger sister.

But it was the man who brought up the rear – escorting no one, Elizabeth noted – that caught her attention for more than five seconds.

He was tall, very tall, standing head and almost shoulders above anyone in the room, perhaps six feet odd, with dark hair worn in slightly curling locks. Dressed elegantly in a black evening coat and a striped blue-and-grey waistcoat, he exuded an air of luxury that the others did not have to the same degree. The stranger was also handsome, his features regular and almost perfectly symmetrical, except for a slightly raised right brow and half-closed eyes that did not allow her to determine his eye colour.

She saw the party stop at the front and be introduced to Sir William's family – those that they did not already know. Elizabeth walked round the room to get a look at the dancers; perhaps Mr. Bingley and his party liked to dance.

"Ah, there you are! Miss Eliza!" Sir William called. "This gentleman wishes to be introduced to you – if you will, of course."

It was the tall, striking gentleman with dark hair. Elizabeth found herself nodding, and Sir William said, "Mr. Darcy, may I introduce Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Miss Eliza, Mr. Darcy."

 _Darcy_.

A name that sounded familiar, as though she had heard it before, and a name that danced on the cusp of recognition, almost but not quite placed. She started, and only heard the latter half of the gentleman's inquiry as to her health.

"Oh, I am quite alright," she replied; "merely surprised."

He raised an eyebrow, and she tried to look at his eyes, but he kept them half-closed, the rest shaded by his thick dark lashes. "Miss Elizabeth, might I have the honour of this set?"

Lord, but he was handsome. Elizabeth coloured at this thought – how very Lydia-like that thought was! But she nodded and smiled and put her hand in Mr. Darcy's pearl-gloved ones. Even through the thin fabric of his gloves she felt the heat of his skin, and a queer buzzing feeling took up residence in her stomach, fluttering against the roof of it like a butterfly attempting to escape.

Yet he did not fully look at her. Sometimes she thought she caught a flash of blue underneath the thick eyelashes, the quick lift of his eyes and the equally quick lowering. He was silent, and Elizabeth, uneasily, asked, "Sir, do you somehow disapprove of me?"

"I asked you to dance, did I not?" His lips kicked up at one corner. "That is hardly a sign of disapproval, Miss Elizabeth."

"Nevertheless, I am sure you realize that a gentleman usually does not dance with his boots, for all you look at them," she remarked.

He laughed. "True, but it may not be myself I am blinding." His eyes flickered up for a second and Elizabeth caught a flash of blue, then they flickered down again. "Perhaps it is you."

"Why must you? Surely there can be no reason for you to do such a thing!"

"I wish to see if I have improved in civility since an incident I shall now neglect to name that is imprinted on my mind forever."

She smirked. He was half-earnest and half-jesting, exactly the kind of talk she loved. "Am I to be simply a test of some sort? The subject of a study?"

His lips twitched. "If you please, and you may accept it as one of my many oddities."

Elizabeth smiled, her hand tingling from even the slight contact with his. She liked him already, and more than that: she was invariably attracted to him. "And may I inquire as to what others of those oddities are?"

"They are for me to know and for you to find out," Darcy quipped.

He was truly a conversationalist she loved to spar with. "I fancy I have found another one of those oddities," she replied. "But since we have exhausted that subject for the time being, perhaps I shall remark that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones."

"How so?"

They were parted for a few seconds, and when they were within earshot again, she said, "Because in private balls, one's host saves one the company of some disagreeable people."

"Am I to be counted among their number?" Darcy asked with no hint of having taken offence.

"I fear I cannot answer your question until I have completed my sketch of your character." Even as she said this, she was tempted to revoke it in favour of a more favourable answer. "Though there is some uncertainty, I would say not."

He laughed, and they went down the dance. Once they had been returned to the same relative places, he rejoined, "I rather think you have already finished your sketch of _me_ at least."

This odd statement puzzled her. "That is impossible, as I have known you barely a quarter of an hour."

"On the contrary," he began, but seemed to think better of having spoken at all, and lapsed into silence.

"On the contrary – what?"

There was no answer, and Elizabeth was disappointed when they did not talk for the remainder of the dance, Darcy seeming very preoccupied. He only stayed long enough to remind her that they had another dance in a few minutes' time, and then he vanished.

When he did return the preoccupied, pensive look had slid off his face, and he talked once more. It suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that his dancing the first with her would inevitably attract the attention of her mother, and such a man must be prepared for verbal assaults of the grateful and matrimonial varieties. "Mr. Darcy," she prompted, calling his attention.

"Yes?"

"Have you met my mother, sir?"

"I am afraid not."

"I suggest you be on your guard, for my mother's goal in life is to have her daughters married, and I shall tell you I am the second of five single sisters. My sister Jane has been out for almost seven years, and the fact that she is 'not even engaged' may set my mother upon you."

"Me? Whatever for?"

"Why, as a son-in-law, of course! Because you are the richer between you and Mr. Bingley, you may be targeted for Jane. Or, since you seem singularly attached to me, she may push you towards me." She felt uncomfortable even saying this, and a certain nervousness lest he alienate himself from her.

She was surprised by his reply of "And why should that matter?"

Mr. Darcy seemed incredibly slow on the uptake. "My mother is more than a little mercenary, sir, and though I have never professed to like it, it is the truth. No man would like to be the target of her machinations."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I would not mind, if it meant I could speak with you."

Elizabeth coloured as a delightful wave of giddiness swept over her, but that wave put her a bit on her guard. Mr. Darcy certainly was pleasant company, but she could not let herself be caught by a rake.

There was silence, and then she remarked, "It is your turn to say something, Mr. Darcy. As I started the conversation last time, I believe it is only fair that you do so this time."

"I warn you, I propose very bad topics."

"Do your worst." She tilted up her chin at him defiantly, and he laughed.

"Then my worst is to suggest we talk of books in a ballroom. Would you be so kind as to indulge me?" And still he had managed to avoid looking at her directly!

"That is not so bad," she laughed. "I have certainly heard worse." And so they passed the time until the end of the dance discovering that they had similar literary interests, and while Mr. Darcy recommended some titles he was sure would be easy enough to find, Elizabeth suggested some that she thought he would like.

When they did finally part his slip-up of the dance before was almost completely forgotten. He escorted her back to her seat and handed her a glass of punch. Smiling, he bowed and walked away.

Only then did she realize that she had wholly forgotten William in the novel and caustic company of one Mr. Darcy. A wave of guilt flooded her before she remembered that he would have wanted her to forget him. He had probably forgotten her already. With that she felt she had the permission she needed in order to let go of what had been a doomed friendship from the start, left instead with thought of a very striking gentleman whose eyes she had yet to see.

To her surprise, she saw him dance with Charlotte, and then Jane, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia. Elizabeth was a bit wounded when she noticed that he looked them in the eye, straight in the eye with no qualms whatsoever. Then again, he had said it was one of his 'oddities'. She supposed she had to let it slide.

She was delighted when Bingley asked Jane for another set – the two fifth – and when William Goulding asked for the same set from her. The two next were solicited by Mr. Bingley, and she gave herself up to the enjoyment of a crisp October evening, dancing and chatting.

To her amazement, the last set of the night was requested by none other than Mr. Darcy. It was a declaration, if a subtle one, of slight preference that she was not prepared for.

Elizabeth stammered, "You do know what you do?"

The highly nervous-looking gentleman bounced on the balls of his feet. "I do," he said firmly. "And I fully accept that consequence, as long as you agree."

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see an over-the-moon Mrs. Bennet urging her to accept his offer. She was determined to do as it pleased her, no matter what other people might say or do about it. In all honesty she had wanted for his company more than once throughout the night, and she wished to have a few minutes of relative privacy.

"I do agree," said she, and his shoulders instantly sagged in relief. Elizabeth found it frustrating to be unable to read his eye expression, as the pinch of the eyebrow and eye usually told her much. However she could not do this to Mr. Darcy, as his eyes had remained stubbornly half-closed every minute in her company.

Yet his smile was blinding, though shy.

She decided right then and there that, rake or not, she could, would, and did like Mr. Darcy.

* * *

They danced and they laughed and they talked of the mundane and the philosophical, finding great similarity in the turn of their minds, though on such opposite tangents that they had no shortage of debate material. Elizabeth knew he could pay her no special attention, but she was happy to have found a friend in him.

As the last dance wound down, she was almost surprised to be tired, though she knew she ought to be. It was only that his sharp mind and nearly as sharp tongue had found kindred in hers, and that company of like and like had given her satisfaction that she had not had in recent years.

Darcy did more than intrigue, attract, and entertain her. He escorted her out to the Bennet carriage when it arrived, and suddenly he leant close to her ear and whispered, "You can look at me now."

Confused, she whirled around to face him, only to find his half-closed eyes fully open and gazing at her with a deep intensity she had come to expect from those like her. Beautiful blue eyes with a golden ring around the irises, eyes that contrasted with the night sky.

But they were such a peculiar shade of blue! It was not the shade that of Landon Lucas, nor that of Olivier Ainsworth. It was a blue made of all those blues and another shade she could not yet assign a name to.

As he bid her goodbye with a smile on his face, she only absent-mindedly said her farewells as she struggled to place that nameless shade of blue. The footman handed her into the carriage and she immediately slid onto the seat closest to that door to avoid being crushed by Lydia.

Elizabeth could still see him. Darcy was standing in the lane, hands clasped behind his back, smiling directly at her, his unique blue eyes shining.

Suddenly it smacked her upside the head with such force that her eyebrow twitched and began to throb.

 _Cerulean_. That shade of blue was **_cerulean_**.

Cerulean eyes with a golden ring.

That smiling face, those happy eyes, finally rang true with a memory as the name Darcy was resurrected from its forgotten grave.

Fitzwilliam George Alexander Darcy!

Just as the carriage rolled away, Elizabeth gasped. "Oh God!"


	7. Of Dances and Discussion

**This isn't really much of a chapter, only a filler, but the next encounter with Lizzy and the dashing Darcy will come again soon!**

 **As for why she didn't recognize him - would YOU recognize a person you'd barely seen? Like, once a year for three years? That's not a thing. She doesn't remember him as an adult because she didn't have the time to recall every feature on his face. She doesn't recognize his last name because every letter by him isn't signed in full, and the envelopes were thrown away long ago.**

 **And if you don't know who I'm talking about, read again!**

 **Enjoy! ~Alex.**

* * *

On returning to Longbourn House they found Mr. Bennet still awake, and with a book. "Hello, Papa, we have returned!" Elizabeth said, knowing the way her father lost himself in books.

"Already, Lizzy? Why, it is past ten already! I had not realized so much time had passed." However, Mr. Bennet had no time to exclaim over lost time, because Mrs. Bennet took her chance to regale him with her tale of the evening.

"Oh! My dear Mr. Bennet," she fussed, coming over to where that gentleman sat by the fire, "we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball – I wish you had been there! Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it! Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley himself thought her quite beautiful, and – only think of this, my dear – actually danced with her twice! And she was the only lady in the room that he asked a second time.

"First of all, he asked Miss Lucas – I was so vexed to see him stand up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all – indeed, nobody can, you know – and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger –"

"If he had had any compassion for me," cried Mr. Bennet, who had unsuccessfully tried to attend to his book, "he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, madam, say no more of his partners. Oh, that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh! My dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! And his sisters are charming women! I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses; I daresay the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown –"

"No more about lace, Mrs. Bennet!" Mr. Bennet interrupted impatiently. "In fact, I would be much pleased if you desisted from any descriptions of any finery of any sort, thank you!"

With that, he withdrew into his book, but his wife was not finished, and related the gossip that had been created because of Mr. Darcy's asking Elizabeth for two sets, and by his staying near her for most of the evening. Fortunately for his second daughter, none of the Bennets – least of all Mr. Bennet – were attending to the matriarch of that family, and her speech fell on deaf ears as Jane and a mortified Elizabeth quietly moved upstairs for the night, Mary drowned her mother out with her music, and Kitty and Lydia were talking with excitement about the regiments that were to be quartered in Meryton for the winter.

* * *

Meanwhile, Jane and Elizabeth, closeted in their shared bedroom, were talking of Mr. Bingley as they prepared for bed. Jane, who had been circumspect in her praise of him before, now opened her heart to her dearest sister. "He is just what a young man ought to be," she remarked quietly, brushing out her golden locks, "sensible, good-humoured, lively – and I never saw such happy manners, so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!" Her radiant smile spoke more of her feelings for the man than her words.

"He is also handsome," teased Elizabeth, "which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can – his character is thereby complete!"

Jane blushed, and turned the conversation to the dancing: "I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment."

"Did you not?" Elizabeth inquired, her eyes wide open in a charade of innocence. "I did for you. But that is one great difference between us: compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room – no thanks to his gallantry for that! Well," she drawled out the word, as though she was pondering the matter, "he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person, at any rate."

"Dear Lizzy!" Jane looked scandalized.

Elizabeth gave a little chuckle, and grinned impishly at her sister. "You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. All the world is good and agreeable in your eyes; in fact, I have never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life!"

"I would not wish to be too hasty in censuring anyone, but I always speak what I think."

"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! _Affectation_ of candour is common enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad— belongs to you and you alone. And so you like this man's sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his!" Elizabeth frowned at the memory of the snobbish Miss Bingley and her shadow, Mrs. Hurst. It reminded her uncomfortably of Lydia and Kitty – only snobbier.

"Certainly not—at first." Elizabeth inwardly rolled her eyes. "But they are very pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her."

Elizabeth inwardly scoffed at Jane's second declaration – that they were 'very pleasing women when you converse with them'. Their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and she herself was very little disposed to approve them. They were very fine ladies; good-humoured when they were pleased, agreeable when they chose to be, but proud and conceited. They were of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance that they tended to recall more than that their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.

They were obviously anxious for their brother's having an estate of his own; but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table— nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune.

As she had heard, Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by a passing recommendation to look at Netherfield Hall. He did look at it, and into it for half-an-hour, was pleased with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.

"And what of his friend, Mr. Darcy?" Jane asked. "He and Mr. Bingley certainly seem to be very good friends." Suddenly mischievous, she remarked, "And _he_ also asked _you_ for a second set!"

Elizabeth blushed uncomfortably, but decided to be as open with her sister as her sister was with her. "He did, and Jane, I like him very much. He is just the sort of conversationalist I enjoy talking to, with sarcasm and humour in amounts that match my own. Mr. Darcy is well-informed and shows no sign of being intimidated that I am too."

"Not to mention that he is also handsome, in his own way," Jane added devilishly.

She was rewarded with another blush from her sister, and Jane almost crowed in a very un-Jane-like manner. Gentle and retiring though she was, Jane Bennet was a woman who loved her family deeply, and wanted nothing more for her sister Lizzy than happiness.

"I like him, Jane, but that is all I will do at present," Elizabeth said determinedly.

She dared not share her discovery of his identity with her sister, for Jane had shown a very uncharacteristic coldness towards any mention of her former confidant and would probably threaten Mr. Darcy if she knew who he was.

As she finished plaiting her hair and lay down next to Jane in the cool sheets, she reflected on William.

Between him and Mr. Bingley there appeared to be a steady and easy friendship. William seemed to be close to Bingley because of the latter's open and friendly nature, while the former was endeared to Bingley through his astute judgement and clever mind. Their strengths lay in different directions, and the phrase 'opposites attract' were certainly true in their case.

William was shy to the point of being mistaken for haughty when he was only reserved. In addition, he was very fastidious and not generally inviting to strangers – no, in that respect, Mr. Bingley held the advantage. While Mr. Bingley was welcome wherever he went, and was sure of being well-liked by everyone, Darcy was no favourite – in fact, if he had not demonstrated to all of Meryton that he was friendly with Elizabeth, he would have been considered a very disagreeable man indeed.

What she had heard from both of them – during her dances with them – was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room. As for Jane, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. William, on the other hand, liked a few people and was dismissive of the rest, although he did humour them when he was obliged to.

She blushed once again when she recalled how he had changed. He had always been striking, but now, having grown into his height and healed most of the cuts, scrapes, and blemishes of boyhood, he was devastatingly good-looking. It was no wonder that his looks coupled with his purse had made him quite the catch in London! She was strangely proud to see him so self-assured and confident in himself.

Elizabeth drifted to sleep to Jane's peaceful breathing, and wondering what would come of Bingley's rent of Netherfield.

* * *

And three miles away, in his bedroom at Netherfield, Fitzwilliam Darcy smoothed out the papers on his desk. None of them were urgent; in fact, they were from years past, going back to a Christmas letter, all signed _Elizabeth_.


	8. Of Chance and Circumstance

It was on her morning walk that she encountered him again.

She brought Victoria with her, the dog going nigh on twelve years but still active and lively. She had no particular direction, and was simply walking with Oakham Mount as her eventual goal, when a voice hailed her from the Netherfield side of the path.

Elizabeth turned and there stood a great black stallion, astride whom was none other than Fitzwilliam Darcy, as she now knew him to be.

"Mr. Darcy!" she called, waving back at him.

He cantered up, towering over her with his imposing height and his horse. "Do you recognise me now?" he asked quietly.

Yes, she did. In the regular, sharp-cut features she could recognise and imagine the boy he had been, and the boy that was still in him. His long lashes and curling dark hair she remembered from childhood, though his shoulders had broadened from what she recalled. Though he had been a man when she last saw him, her image of him was as he had been most of their friendship: a gangly but self-assured young man with a face not completely rid of the blemishes of adolescence, but with a charm of its own.

She had certainly never expected him to become like this: straight-bridged nose, sky-like cerulean eyes, thick dark brows, smooth alabaster skin, rose-touched lips that curled over well-kept teeth, and a firm chin. William had also grown into his unusual height, with more healthy weight than he had had as a boy.

"Yes, I do," she replied.

"And you – you do not hate me?" It was half-statement, half-question, as though he was suggesting the idea and waiting for her to either confirm or contradict it.

"Why would I? Neither of us were entirely blameless in that argument." As an afterthought, she added, "William."

His eyes flashed with joy at her use of his nickname, and he dismounted, walking slowly towards her. "You are so tall now… and I see you have allowed your hair to grow out." His smile was crooked and a bit nervous, but it was his familiar smile.

"And you cut yours," Elizabeth said with a laugh.

He tossed his nape-length locks ruefully. "Almost burned them, I fear, and I wished for no repeat of that incident, so I have trimmed them close ever since, fashion be damned," he said. "Ah – forgive me. I keep forgetting that I should not swear around you."

"You make my very ears bleed!" she moaned theatrically, throwing one hand against her forehead in mock distress. "You injure me, good sir."

His eyes laughed, and they gazed at her again. "You have certainly filled out a bit," he remarked at length. "If you were pretty at sixteen, you are lovely now."

With a self-deprecating tone, she replied, "Oh, but Jane is the beauty of the family. Wait until you see her, William, and you shall scarcely notice me besides." She laughed. "And yet Mama despairs of ever finding a match for her beautiful Jane."

"Even beside your sister, who I am sure is as handsome as you say, I can never ignore you," he said softly, his tone affectionate.

There was silence then, the joy of reunion swelling between them, and when he opened his arms slightly she ran into them and embraced him. And suddenly they were both laughing and crying and he was spinning her around as he used to do, his arms warm against her neck. In those joyful moments Elizabeth could not care less if someone had seen them. She was only too glad, her heart soaring from the joy, to have back her friend – affectionate, kind, quick-witted William.

"Elizabeth," he breathed against her hair. "Oh, I missed you so!"

"I missed you as well, dear William!" she choked into his shoulder. All the longing, regret, and grief over the past four years had transformed into their purest and first form – love – and were now pouring out of her into this dearest of friends she had never stopped caring for.

Even when he set her feet on the ground, he kept holding her close to him, so close that she could hear his heartbeat though it was his shoulder she rested her head on. In a surprising breach of propriety she had not expected from him, William bent slightly to kiss her cheek, and an electric thrill ran through her body.

When they at last let go of each other, William let out a wondering breath. "You truly have no grudges against me."

Elizabeth found this ridiculous. "Of course I don't! How could I, when I knew that I was largely to blame?"

"Oh no!" he cried. "That argument was my fault entirely. I – Elizabeth, I have a confession to make."

"Certainly you may make it to me, and gladly," Elizabeth murmured, sitting down. William followed suit, laying down on the grass, 'coat be damned', as they used to do when swapping secrets.

"That argument was my fault entirely, for the very simple reason that it was my intention for it to happen," he said quickly and guiltily. "You must understand that I did not wish for us to part – far from it – but I believed it to be for the best. I, a foolish and wounded young man, tried to decide what was best for you without consulting you." His half-lidded eyes laughed. "I apologize thoroughly." Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it.

Another thrill shuddered through Elizabeth. She had not thought to wear gloves, as she had no expectation of meeting anyone on her walk, and the touch of his lips against her bare skin was pleasant and fiery. It was highly improper, but then, everything about their relationship with each other had been.

"You are forgiven," she said to him; "as thoroughly as you make the apology. I too had my part, William, you cannot deny that."

"What I am trying to say, Lizzy, is that I separated us on purpose, thinking it was for the best."

"Whatever for?" she demanded, incredulous. "How could that be justified by any means?"

William did a very uncharacteristic thing: he blushed. "I have no wish to broach the subject," he said firmly. "Besides, it failed, thankfully. Perhaps later, but certainly not now. We must still learn each other again. The essentials, I hope, are still there, but the smaller details must needs change as the years pass."

"True," his companion laughed. "Tell me, do you still disdain dirt?"

"Not as much as I used to; when you are a gentleman farmer you must sometimes help in the fields. The fact that I sometimes return home filthy as a pig, and playing with you in a park as a child, have lessened my disgust for dirt greatly. Do you make the rounds now? I recall you wishing that you could when you were nine."

"I do," she laughed. "That is usually a job reserved for my mother and father, but since they are negligent towards that duty I have decided to take it upon myself. I know every tenant on Longbourn's land."

"I am glad for that," said he. "While that duty is usually reserved for the mistress of the estate, Georgiana is not yet out and though she does accompany me she lacks the social skills necessary for that task. She is learning, though, and that is all that matters."

"You seem like an excellent brother," Elizabeth sighed. "I wish I had a man like you for a brother. Then Mama would not have to worry so much."

"I have not been as excellent a brother as you think, Elizabeth." He was suddenly morose. "I – I want to tell you, I do… but trust is a very hard thing to give, and it is even harder for me now that I am in my twenty-seventh year and disillusioned about whom I can trust."

"I can wait," Elizabeth assured him. "I can and I shall, until you feel prepared to tell me."

He smiled. "Thank you. You have no idea how good it is to find someone who will not rush you." He lazily plucked at the grass, gazing up at her, and then his eyes slid shut. Drowsily, he flipped over onto his stomach and drummed the ground with the toes of his boots like he was fifteen.

"Stop that; you will ruin your coat," Elizabeth reprimanded him, confused by his behaviour.

William laughed. "It is my coat, and I am my own master, Elizabeth Bennet! Very well." He flipped back over onto his back, and plucked a dandelion that he offered to her with a spark in his eye.

"Thank you." She took it and blew away the spores.

The lull in the conversation was halted when she remarked, "You are very sly, you know, avoiding my gaze in a candlelit ballroom. You need not have done that, and you only succeeded in making me suspicious of you! It is lucky for you I did not place your face immediately, or even your surname!"

"It was a close thing," he replied with a smile. "I was counting on the fact that you had seen me very rarely in the last few years, and had seen me none at all for the last four. I was banking on your remembering me as an adolescent and not as an adult, as William and not as Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Why make me suspicious of you by averting your eyes so obviously, then?"

"I was taking no chances with my eyes – they are very unique, and now that I am grown they have this propensity to glow like a cat's. Besides, I _wanted_ you to be suspicious of me!" William chuckled. "I am not so foolish now as I was then, and I know how stupid I was. However I could never find a good enough excuse to tear myself away from my duties and my sister to come here for seemingly no reason.

"Charles aided me there entirely of his own volition! When he wrote to me telling me of Netherfield in Hertfordshire and how he had rented it after half-an-hour's inspection, I fairly jumped at the chance I was getting. After my note went unanswered, I assumed the worst."

That brought Elizabeth up short. "What do you mean? What note?"

William knit his eyebrows in confusion. "You sent me a note. I answered it. Did it not come?"

"No!" she said, vexed. "I never got an answer!"

"How did it get lost?" he wondered. "Did I miswrite the direction?"

"Perhaps it got lost in the coach," Elizabeth suggested. "Some people do travel with the mail coaches, and perhaps at one of the stops it fluttered out and was not missed. In any case, it never reached me."

"Do you mean to say," William asked in disbelief, "that a friendship of ten years crumbled because of _one_ lost letter?" Wondering at the absurdity of it all, he laughed, Elizabeth joining him when she too realised how very ridiculous that was.

"I should have been more persistent, forgive me," William finally said, when they had sobered.

"I should have as well. You are not entirely at fault. It takes both people to cut off an acquaintance, you know."

"On the other hand," he commented, "what a pleasant surprise the renewal of it was!"

"What do you mean? Did you not come here with the intention of seeing me?"

"Oh yes!" William cried. "Only that I saw no one at the ballroom who looked like Lizzy Bennet. The fact that you were my first partner was merely a stroke of luck. You see, I had been in such a good mood on the journey here that I had promised Charles to dance the first set at least. In fact, I intended to dance every set if it meant I could find you.

"Well, I saw a beautiful girl and asked for an introduction, which was all it was until I heard your name." He laughed delightedly. "I dared not show it, and methinks I hid it well enough, but I was shocked! How could this be little Lizzy at all? I must say," said he, looking up at her, "you were a vision last night."

"Were you looking at Jane instead of me, William?" Elizabeth asked cheekily, rather unsure of what to do with this unexpected compliment.

"I am certain it was you," he replied. "I danced with her, if you can recall. She is nothing to you.""

Yes, she did; he had danced the two third with Jane. She flushed uncomfortably. "Then how can you still say that? You flatter me."

"I do not flatter anyone" was William's firm reply. "One sister's beauty need not diminish that of another. Besides, I think it must be in your blood. All of your sisters were very pretty, and Jane indeed was handsome, but you were something else entirely."

It was fortunate for Elizabeth that he was looking elsewhere; otherwise he would have seen her colour again. "What on earth do you mean?"

"You ask me that a lot," he remarked acerbically, and they laughed. "I was actually uncertain whether or not I had gotten it wrong, until of course you opened your mouth. I could have shouted for joy and embraced you right then and there," he reflected.

"It is well that you did not," she said. "My mother was already very voluble about your dancing with me. Why did you dance two sets with me, by the way?"

"The first set was entirely by accident," he reminded her. "I wished for us to dance one on purpose."

"You of all people should know what two sets mean!"

"I do; make no mistake on that score." His eyes flashed. "Years in London with a target on one's back tend to teach you quickly. But I decided that what I stood to gain was more than what I would lose."

Elizabeth thought she heard him murmur, "And I would not greatly mind the consequence."

William looked at her again. "Are you displeased with me?"

"I daresay I would be incapable of remaining displeased with you should I even attempt such a useless endeavour!" Elizabeth cried.

"But – your mother," he stammered, very descriptively.

"I can stand my mother," she replied firmly. "Her wishes have no impact on mine, even if they end up in similar bents."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again. "I –" He stopped again, and looked away.

Silence, this time awkward, drifted into the conversation.

He coughed and checked his pocketwatch. "Regrettably, I shall have to return to Netherfield before Charles wonders if I have been kidnapped or waylaid. I thank you for your delightful company, and I certainly hope to see you once more… perhaps we may chance upon each other again?"

She gasped in mock dismay. "Are you, sir, suggesting a rendezvous?"

He shrugged, pocketing the watch once more. Elizabeth recognized the small, quaint golden thing as an old watch of hers, given her by her father, that she had gifted to William on his sixteenth birthday. That it had survived eleven years was less surprising to her than the fact that he had kept it for eleven years. "You may or may not; that is your decision, but I shall certainly be walking the same time tomorrow."

Bidding him farewell for the time being, she walked back home in high spirits.

* * *

The Lucases were very good friends of the Bennet family – except perhaps Mr. Bennet – so that the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate. Elizabeth had untied the ribbon from his letters and begun reading the faded words again, when the Lucases came to call. Immediately she sought out Charlotte, to whom she could say almost anything.

The large company broke off into small groups and pairs, although there were no fixed conversation partners. Such it was with the Lucas and Bennet clans; all could talk at once, and to different people, provided it was about whatever topic they had agreed to discuss: this time, the assembly.

"You began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to the eldest Miss Lucas. "You were Mr. Bingley's first choice."

"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better." Charlotte smiled at Jane, who smiled serenely back.

"Oh! You mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that did seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he did—I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson." Mrs. Bennet tried to sound modest, but only achieved a moderate success.

"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you?" Charlotte said amiably to both her friend Elizabeth and Elizabeth's mother. "Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? – And his answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! The eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'"

Thankfully, after that Charlotte steered the conversation away from Mr. Bingley – but, unfortunately, towards Mr. Darcy. "And what of his friend, Mrs. Bennet? There are so many opinions of him that I am confused about what to think of him." Charlotte winked at Elizabeth, who bit her lip, embarrassed. "I hear that some people like him, and that he likes a few of the Meryton townspeople."

"Oh!" Mrs. Bennet replied airily, fanning herself harder than ever. "He is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips."

"Are you quite sure, ma'am? - is not there a little mistake?" said Jane, ending her conversation with Maria Lucas. "I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."

"Aye, that he did – but only after he came back from talking with Lizzy," Mrs. Bennet conceded grudgingly. "But there was such a look of disdain on his face – as though he were above our company, and so much better than the rest of the human race!"

"Miss Bingley told me," Jane replied, "that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably agreeable." She flashed a glance at her next youngest sister.

"I do not believe a word of it, my dear, not a word. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long first. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise."

"That was not the case," Elizabeth protested, unable to endure such censure of her friend. "When he spoke to me, he assured me that he only thought Mrs. Long was very formidable; besides, _I_ do not think he is so very disagreeable. I am inclined to believe his silence was more due to shyness than haughtiness." She did not mention that she had had to talk very quickly in order to persuade him to speak. Mr. Darcy – William now – had been literally scared stiff at the very thought.

"At any rate, he danced with all the Bennet and Lucas girls, and I call _that_ agreeable," Charlotte declared, "for some of us have less sense than others." She glanced at Kitty, Lydia, and her own sister Maria, who were engaged in a conversation about the officers.

"Another time, Lizzy," her mother said, "I would not dance with him one set. Let him stew in his own pride, I say."

"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas who came with his sisters, "I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day."

"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said Mrs. Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly." The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

* * *

The next day, Elizabeth spied a green thing flying from a tree on her usual jaunt. Upon moving closer she saw that it was a ribbon with a note threaded through it addressed to _E. B., Longbourn_. She smiled and took the note, unfolding it and seeing thin loopy letters spelling out:

 _Dear E.,_

 _I came today, but my friend B. borrowed me for estate business, and so I find myself scribbling this note in the hope that you alone will find it. At the moment B. is talking of your sister, so please do send my regards to Miss J. and tell her that B. does too, as he would if he knew I was writing to you._

 _On that note I must be off. If you must reply, tie it to this tree. If you found it, use my real initials in addressing the reply. If it is not the recipient and you have no idea what I talk of, I charge you, leave it._

 _Sincerely,_

 _W._

Elizabeth noticed that she had gone about a mile and a half from Longbourn, judging from its shape in the distance. That meant that she was also about a mile and a half from Netherfield, the halfway point between the two houses. A pen and paper had also been provided for her, and she gladly wrote back to him:

 _Dear W.,_

 _You need not have indulged yourself so, for I am quite certain my family shall in time call on you, Mr. B., Miss B., and the H.'s soon enough. I advise you to be ready, my dear sir, for it shall not be easy. My family is quite boisterous, as you know, and you had better drink your coffee lest my mother give you a headache with her fussing._

 _However, I understand your excuse, for it is a valid one, and I appreciate your efforts at communication. Thank you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _E._

She flipped it, folded it in half, writing ' _F.D., Netherfield_ ', on the exposed bit before tying the ribbon safely around her note. His note she took with her on her way back.


	9. Of Falseness and Friendship

**Hello again, little wolflings!**

 **So as a reward for waiting so long, all the followers get an additional TWO chapters, besides Chapter 8, which I've already uploaded. I hope you enjoy this new story, because while I liked the original one, I'm cringing now as I read it over. I hope all those who liked the old one enjoy this one better.**

 **Also, special thanks to a friend, NotACursedChild, for spurring me on. If you can write during finals I can write during Hell Week. Try me. Anyway, thanks for motivating me.**

 **Thanks to the lot of you as well, all 110 current followers, as well as the 47 who favorited this story. Thank you for an amazing journey and for helping me be me.**

 **~Alex**

* * *

Over the next few days, the Longbourn and Netherfield parties called on each other, and attended the same gatherings. While Mr. Bingley was open to all of the Bennets, and Mr. Darcy, though more withdrawn, expressed the same sentiments, the Bingley sisters dismissed Mrs. Bennet and the three younger Bennet girls.

An intention of getting to know _them_ better was, however, extended to the older two, who received it with different reactions. Jane was pleased, Elizabeth was sceptical. Mr. Bingley also expressed, though non-verbally, a desire to know Jane better, and Elizabeth was satisfied to see that Jane's feelings were returned, and told Charlotte so, at one of Sir William's parties.

"It may be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."

"But she _does_ help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton not to discover it too."

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out."

"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses."

"That is a good plan," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to get any husband at all, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not enough to make her understand his character."

"Not as you tell it. Had she merely dined with him, she might only have seen whether he had a good appetite; but four evenings have also been spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal."

"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but about any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him tomorrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. The people involved always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life."

"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You _know_ it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself." She turned to William, who was standing directly behind her, unobtrusively eavesdropping. "And what think you, Mr. Darcy, of happiness in marriage?"

"That I shall never live to see it if my current state continues," he replied dryly.

"You selfish man, Mr. Darcy! I meant for your friend and my eldest sister." Elizabeth's eyes laughed.

He seemed to stop at this, and his cerulean orbs sought hers. "She truly is attached to him?" he asked seriously.

"As I said, anyone who cannot perceive her partiality for Mr. Bingley must be a simpleton."

"Based on that, all the world who is not intimately acquainted with Miss Bennet must be a simpleton, Miss Elizabeth." He sounded quite serious, but the smile that hovered on his lips belied his tone. "However I shall trust your judgement, and shall declare on the grounds of your word that I should be glad to wish them joy soon."

Charlotte looked triumphant. "There now, Eliza, even Mr. Darcy agrees with me."

Elizabeth smiled good-naturedly. "Very well. I am outnumbered! I must therefore advise Mr. Bingley on Jane's regard at once."

"That would be my duty," William volunteered. "However, I would tell you to be cautious. Bingley has fallen in and out of love as quickly as the change of clothes he requires. While this attachment seems deeper than his previous ones, I would still step carefully around this. If they do truly care for each other as they should, all well and good. But it would still do to guard yourselves."

Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged worried glances, but William's gaze was fixed on Elizabeth, unobtrusive, gentle, open, and immeasurably soft. Her brown eyes found his, filled with laughter and joy, and focusing on him with a reassuring kindness that told him that she would never again leave him adrift.

However, he stayed close to her for the rest of the evening, perplexing Elizabeth. She always saw him in the background, a few feet away or a few inches, but always with those cerulean eyes fixed on her. Confused, she brought it to his attention: "Why on earth are you following me, William?"

He found no ready reply, only stammering one or two syllables in embarrassed apology.

She shrugged. "Very well, did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?"

"With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady energetic." William's eyes had that sparkle that, though Elizabeth did not know it, only kindled for her.

"You are severe on us, Mr. Darcy!"

"It will be her turn soon to be teased," said Miss Lucas, joining them. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."

"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! – Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers," she replied, flicking a glance at the Bingley sisters. On Charlotte's persevering, however, she added, "Very well, if it must be so, it must." And she looked at William with a teasing spark in her eye, and said, "Though, Mr. Darcy, I would prefer it if you did not follow me to the pianoforte!"

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, always impatient for display. No one saw that Mr. Darcy stiffened when Mary all but pushed her sister out of the seat.

Mary was better than her sister in terms of technical skill, but her performance lacked her sister's emotion and liveliness, and she possessed a finicky air that did not sit well with her audience. At Lydia's request, she played a few Scottish and Irish airs, while the two youngest Bennets – with some of the Lucases and several officers – began to dance in a corner of the room.

After one dance, during which he collected his thoughts, William stood up with Elizabeth, then Charlotte, Kitty and Lydia, and the younger Lucas girls, all the while trying hard to talk about interesting things. With Elizabeth and Charlotte he was successful, but with the others, the conversations more or less petered out.

While the dances were ongoing, William walked a bit around the room, his eyes roving, and he was accosted by Miss Bingley, who was piqued at not having caught his attention for the whole night. "I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not," he managed to reply with perfect diffidence.

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in such society; and indeed, like you, I was never more annoyed! The dullness, and yet the noise - the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What I would give to hear your opinions of them!"

His reply was not as well thought out as it should have been, and it came out thus:

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was much more agreeably engaged. I have been thinking on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. William replied, seemingly without forethought, but with great intrepidity:

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?"

"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy." William's face barely controlled his disgust. An intimate friend such as Elizabeth herself would have seen the displeasure in the half-closed lids of his eyes, the slight pucker in his eyebrows, and the stiff rigidity of his broad shoulders. However, only his father would have noticed the slightly bitter twist to his lips; everyone else would have mistaken it for disgust.

"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you," Miss Bingley struck out at Elizabeth with barely masked venom, and continued to insert these barbs throughout the evening.

He pointedly ignored her, and although his composure convinced her that all was safe, she failed to look at his eyes. They sparked with barely concealed animosity.


	10. Of Sickness and Society

Though Elizabeth felt a bit of guilt for eschewing propriety so, she continued to walk to that tree to meet with William and talk of anything and everything. A fondness for him began to grow – a fondness that had nothing to do with the fact that he was her dearest friend.

He had changed much, and she found that she liked the changes. He was quieter, though no less energetic, and less headstrong. Elizabeth began to find a strange joy in seeing his cerulean eyes focused on solely her. This joy that surged up in her every time he greeted her with warmth in his voice and his face, this queer swirl of emotions that hit her when he smiled for her, was something she strove to quell.

After all, William's last name was still Darcy. He was still rich, and such a gentleman would only logically turn to her as a last resort, which would never happen. He was handsome, he was amazing, and he was wealthy, and while Elizabeth was content where she was – she had to be, to live day to day – she was below his notice.

About this time, Kitty and Lydia were walking to Meryton – only a mile away from Longbourn Village – to visit their Aunt and Uncle Phillips. Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were the most interesting at the present. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were no secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his youngest nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed: "From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in England. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced."

Catherine, or Kitty as she was known at home, was the more sensible between the two, and fell silent for a minute or two, disconcerted. But Lydia was unconcerned, and prattled on as if she had not heard her father, about Captain Carter and how she hoped to see him before he left for London. Her mother, however, came to her defence.

"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody's children, it should not be of my own."

"If my children are silly, I hope to be always sensible of it," Mr. Bennet's bland voice came from behind his newspaper.

"Yes - but as it happens, they are all of them very clever." Elizabeth, who was passing through, having just come in from a morning walk with William, rolled her eyes discreetly at this comment.

"This is the only point, I hope, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish."

"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I daresay they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him."

"Mamma," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."

A footman entered, effectively preventing Mrs. Bennet's reply. "A note for Miss Jane, ma'am," he explained, "from Netherfield, and I am to wait for an answer." Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read, "Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love!"

"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—

"If you are not so compassionate as to dine today with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.

"Yours ever, CAROLINE BINGLEY"

"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of that."

"Dining out," Mrs. Bennet remarked, "that is very unlucky."

"Can I have the carriage?" Jane asked.

"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night."

"That would be a good scheme," observed Elizabeth, "if you were sure that they would not send her home."

"Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."

"Mama, I had much rather go in the coach," Jane protested.

"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?"

"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them," Mr. Bennet said.

It was some time before they could get it out of him that the carriage horses were needed in the farm, and that only the riding horses could be spared, and of them only one. Mrs. Bennet triumphantly attended her oldest daughter to the door and sent her off on horseback.

True to Mrs. Bennet's observation, it rained torrentially not long after Jane had left. Her sisters were uneasy for her, especially Elizabeth, but her mother was delighted in the fulfilment of her scheme: the rain continued well into the night without intermission. Jane would certainly not be returning that night.

"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.

* * *

To everyone's surprise come next morning, a carriage drove up to Longbourn House and none other than the inscrutable Mr. Darcy stepped out, dressed smartly in navy blue. Shedding his hat and coat in the entryway, he asked for Miss Elizabeth. "It is a note, from Miss Bennet." She accepted from him and read aloud to her family the following missive:

"MY DEAREST LIZZY,—

"I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones – therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me – and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, etc."

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, "if your daughter should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."

"Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage."

"That is my purpose," William said, turning everyone's attention in his direction. "I came personally so that all who wish to should be able to accompany me back to Netherfield for a visit with Miss Bennet."

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth cut in, before anyone could reply, "but I would rather walk."

"Oh, Lizzy, how can you be so silly as to think of such a thing?" her mother exclaimed. "In all this dirt and mud? No, no – you will not be fit to be seen when you get there."

"I shall be fit to see Jane – which is all I want. Mama, I am not going to visit, I am going to _tend_ to Jane." She appealed silently to William. A twinkle shone in William's eyes, but it did not reach the rest of his face. "I understand, Miss Elizabeth. Would you like me to accompany you?"

"I thank you, Mr. Darcy, but I can manage quite well on my own."

"Shall I send for the horses, Lizzy?" Mr. Bennet asked.

"No, Papa, three miles is no distance with a motive. I shall be quite alright."

William then offered to bring Mrs. Bennet and the other three with him, and Mrs. Bennet speedily accepted. Kitty and Lydia asked to be let down at Meryton, to which request William generously agreed. With that, there was a general exodus: the women and William to the carriage, where Elizabeth parted from them, and Mr. Bennet to his library.

* * *

Elizabeth crossed the field at an impatient pace, jumping over puddles and stiles, not caring how dirty her shoes and stockings got. Finally, she found herself in view of the great house.

She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise, except among the Bennets. That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. They received her, however, very politely; and in their brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Hurst was dozing on the sofa, and so unable to greet her.

The reaction that struck her the most was William's. Although all he said was "I am glad you reached Netherfield safely, Miss Elizabeth," he had not said it with any mockery or disdain in his tone, or in his eyes. He sounded genuinely glad to see her safe; the smile on his face said quite enough.

With that smile, Elizabeth felt that she could very well weather Netherfield's storm.

Jane, she found from inquiries, had slept very ill, and was still very feverish. Though she was up, she was not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth quickly excused herself, and went upstairs to tend to her sister. Jane was delighted when she heard that not only was her sister here, her mother and Mary were also to pay her a visit as soon as she would let them, and entreated that they be sent up immediately. This request was granted, and Mrs. Bennet was satisfied; Jane was not ill enough to alarm anyone, but was much too ill to be moved.

Once breakfast was over, the Bennets left, and Elizabeth was joined by the Bingley sisters. They tended to Jane with such affection and solicitude that Elizabeth's dislike of them began to soften. The apothecary, Mr. Jones, visited, announced that she had indeed caught a violent cold and they must endeavour to get the best of it, and promised some draughts. He advised her to go back to bed, and was promptly obeyed, for the feverish symptoms worsened, and Jane's head ached acutely. None of the ladies left the room for a moment that morning.

* * *

At three, Elizabeth felt that she might be overstaying her welcome, and unwillingly said so.

"You must not soil your petticoats again; please, take the chaise," Miss Bingley offered.

"Thank you, I will walk."

"But it is very hot out; surely you can take the chaise this afternoon!"

"Very well, thank you, Miss Bingley."

Jane stirred, and Elizabeth came to her side. "What is it, Jane?"

"I would like… for you to stay, Lizzy," Jane whispered, her voice barely audible. Miss Bingley straightened, and converted the offer of the chaise to an invitation to stay at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth agreed, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to bear the news back to the Bennets, and request a trunk of clothes.

* * *

After dinner – which had removed the sisters from Elizabeth's good graces – Elizabeth went up to Jane, while the others remained. Miss Bingley declared her manners to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, and no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added: "She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild."

"She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? – and after Mr. Darcy kindly offered her the carriage! Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!"

"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office."

"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice."

" _You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley, interrupting the poor man's reading; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."

"Certainly not" was his audible reply. His thoughts, however, ran more along the lines of ' _How dense can this woman be? Georgiana is_ _ **fifteen**_ _, goodness – and in her state she would not be able to, anyway_ '. His countenance tightened at the thought of his sister's suffering, but it was misconstrued.

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum."

"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Bingley. William nodded slightly, but this gesture went unnoticed by the sisters.

"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise." A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again: "I have much regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it."

"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton."

"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

"If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable."

William snapped his book shut in annoyance. "Charles is quite right," he declared sharply, surprising everybody. "Now that that matter is settled, may I beg to be excused from the conversation? I am attempting to finish a book." He turned back to it and resumed reading.

Suddenly – and conveniently – remembering Jane, the sisters cleared out, only to return with an unfavourable report ten minutes later, and Elizabeth returning soon after. She found the entire party at cards, and was invited to join them, but hesitated as she suspected them of playing high. Her fears allayed by a slight shake of William's head that as clearly spoke 'no' as if the word had left his lips, she accepted.

After one game, however, she quitted the game, and, making her sister her excuse, said she would entertain herself with a book for the rest of the time she stayed downstairs. William stood up and sat down near her enough to talk with her if he wished. Miss Bingley took this opportunity to sneer at her: "Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library afforded.

"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into."

"I can do quite well with these, Mr. Bingley," she assured him.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It has been the work of many generations; of course it would be extensive," William replied.

"And you have added so much to it yourself; you are always buying books!"

"It is not so much the size of the library I care for, but the stories and information it holds within. A small library with books of quality is infinitely preferable to a big one filled with useless volumes." Elizabeth cocked her head slightly to one side, warning in her expression. And he added, "Of course, books of quality change from person to person; I prefer practical books and poetry to novels. But those are my tastes, and are not those of all, so some consideration seems in order."

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" tried Miss Bingley, changing the subject, "will she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will," William answered civilly. "She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller."

"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have the patience to be as accomplished as they all are."

"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"

"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," William agreed, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

"You must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman," observed Elizabeth, her tone indicating to William that she was going to tease.

"Indeed I do."

"Oh! Certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually seen. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word. Besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved."

William laughed, again surprising all in the room, as it was not very often that taciturn Mr. Darcy laughed. "That list of accomplishments also has too much truth, Miss Bingley, but I shall be rather rebellious here and say that my personal list is very different from either of the lists you and your brother described."

"Oh?" Miss Bingley started. "Pray tell, what is this rebellious list?"

"They cannot properly be called _accomplishments_ in the material sense of the word," William explained, "but they require discipline and willpower to maintain just as material accomplishments do, and are infinitely more rewarding. As a result I prefer such traits, as such material accomplishments are only of consequence to people who like to boast of their achievements, and therefore, by my standards, not accomplished at all. There are in fact many good people I know who need not be skilled at these things Society has seen fit to call accomplishments."

"You are not answering the question, Mr. Darcy," cried Elizabeth. "Will it please you to stop evading the inquiry and give your answer?"

He gave an enigmatic smile. "First of all – intelligence. Oh, you can tell me intelligence is more of an inborn trait than an acquired one, but I say that intelligence is a choice. One can choose what to fill one's head with, you know. Second, and hand in hand with the first: sense. Intelligence is nothing if you cannot work out a solution based on the bounds of reality. It is useless to hash over something sense can solve in an instant."

"Unless, of course, it provides everyone with a bit of entertainment first," Elizabeth remarked, interrupting. "Forgive my very rude interruption, Mr. Darcy, but sometimes amusing is better than quick, and if not all things can be sensible they can at least be ridiculous."

William smirked. "You are entirely forgiven, Miss Elizabeth!

"Third: understanding and compassion. The possession of these two must require possession of the previous two, as unintelligent and insensible people cannot be compassionate. To extend your view of the world to that of other people, you must first command good use of your own. Understanding and compassion can seem weak in this society of ours, but it saves time and wounds more often than not, and as a man of the world I can tell you that many a time I have been saved by mine.

"And last: kindness. The willingness to do well by others is something that is sadly lacking in us, but why? Why, though it is so easy to be kind and so difficult to not be? Why must people turn their heads away and refuse when it would be so much easier for all parties to simply say yes with a smile?"

"Perhaps because they do not see it that way," Elizabeth once again interrupted. "People cannot always see things the same way, Mr. Darcy, and sometimes they cannot see that more effort was expended in avoiding kindness than if they did it anyway. Perhaps they see the person who to them is worthless. Perhaps they see the watch on which precious minutes are ticking away. Perhaps they see themselves as inadequate for the situation. In any case, kindness is very subjective."

"It is indeed," William mused, dropping his gaze to hers. Suddenly his lips kicked up. "Miss Elizabeth, why do I have a feeling that you are taking their side simply because you want to argue with me?"

"Perhaps because I am," she replied with a sagacious air.


	11. Of William and Wickham

**Hey y'all!**

 **So I'm publishing another chapter! I'm still working on The Paths Not Traveled, sorry but I'm reading and there's more to come! Stay tuned.**

 **~Alex**

* * *

The rest of the Netherfield visit passed without much event, except that Elizabeth's dislike of Bingley's sisters and her friendship with Bingley and his friend strengthened. The discussions initiated by Miss Bingley always, somehow or other, to devolve into banter between William and herself, with some unveiling of the changes in his character and hers along the way.

He had confessed his fault to be a resentful temper, but she rebuffed it with her own example – not stated explicitly, of course, but indirectly – in which he had forgiven with no reason. William had laughed and said nothing, obviously embarrassed by her saving a character he had evidently decided to be less than it was.

His fault was, she decided, that of a quick anger. Annoyance was common with him, irritation, peevishness, even quick flashes of petulance were to be found with the young man. Yet his self-control was absolute, and Elizabeth observed none of the angry moods of sulking that had marred his character in the old days. This temper of his had survived the years, and yet he had moulded it to suit him. What she did not know, however, was that he did sulk still, and it was only her presence that had kept Netherfield from becoming perfectly intolerable for him.

William was a curious man, a dreamer as well as an energetic, and he loved moving as much as he loved thinking. She knew that.

And yet when she was ready to leave, having engaged to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage, he was curiously distracted. When she had gone downstairs to depart for church – the first of the ladies – she had found him in the entryway, an almost wistful look on his face as he twirled his hat on his arm. He was dressed in green, and she in gold, and he had smiled up at her, faraway.

What was he thinking of?

She wanted to know. She wanted to know what brought such a soft brightness to his eyes as though blue colour bled from a pencil and blurred into his irises. Elizabeth wanted to reach out for her sketchbook and copy the almost surreal look on his face. It would be the first time she drew him as he was and not as he used to be.

Yet as soon as their gazes met, his eyes lost their dreamy haze and they were once again serious, secretive. William seemed almost guarded, as though she had stumbled upon something he never wanted her to see.

Thank the good Lord she was going home today, at least _some_ distance away from William and his enchanting smile.

* * *

"And what is this Mr. Collins like?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Just the perfect mix of servile and self-important to be utterly ridiculous. I wonder how his father raised him to be so. He keeps going on and on about his patroness Lady Catherine."

William stiffened. "Lady Catherine?"

"Lady Catherine, of Rosings Park. Why, William, I do believe you have gone quite pale!"

He nodded. "Do you not remember, Elizabeth? I told you all about her in a letter – and a letter about Anne, too!"

Now she remembered – how could she have forgotten so much? "She is your Aunt Catherine!" she gasped. "She – is she every bit as ridiculous as Mr. Collins describes?" Her tone implied that she found a foolish man's description of a silly woman much more ridiculous than if she had seen them herself.

"That and more," the described woman's nephew said with a wry smile. "Very condescending and – forgive me for my strong language – obsessed enough with rank and status for two people. Thank God that her husband, Sir Lewis, was nothing like that. I do think, though, that despite the fact she married him for his riches, she did actually love him in the end. She certainly grieved more than I thought she would."

"At least she gives advice," Elizabeth offered.

William laughed. "Oh, you do know how to be ironic, Lizzy! Her advice is more often than not useless, because she is too sheltered to know much of anything she advises others about. Still, I pity her. She keeps building herself a perfect world that will never come to pass."

"How delusional does this get? Excuse my language."

"Ah, it's no trouble, Elizabeth!" William, who had been leisurely leaning against the tree, checked his watch. "It looks as though we shall have to postpone this singular conversation until such times as we can talk indefinitely."

Elizabeth smiled and waved as he started for Netherfield, feeling a pang when she realised, as she had long ago, that soon enough this could not continue. Surely he could see that? She would have to talk to him about this sometime…

That morning was occupied by a walk to Meryton that Lydia had requested, and Jane and Elizabeth sighed in synchronisation when their sisters' eyes wandered everywhere in search of the officers, and nothing but the very best of bonnets and muslin could turn their eyes away.

Elizabeth saw a young gentleman walking beside another officer – one she recognised as the very Mr. Denny about whose return Lydia meant to inquire. Lydia and Kitty, and so by extension Mr. Collins, Jane, and Elizabeth, approached the pair by a roundabout way, whereupon Mr. Denny introduced his soon-to-be comrade Mr. Wickham.

Mr. Wickham bowed, and his address and manner were pleasing to all, even Mr. Collins to whom the outing had begun to be boring. His amber eyes gleamed as golden as dancing sunlight, and his dark hair was neatly but modestly styled. Kitty and Lydia were immediately enamoured of the dashing young man.

"Is that horses?" Jane asked suddenly, causing the group to quiet as the sound of hooves drew nearer.

There was no way Elizabeth could not have recognised the blue-clad figure that rode up on a spirited-looking black stallion, or the flaming red hair that poked out from under the hat of the rider following the first. "Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy."

"Good morning!" Mr. Bingley said brightly, and Elizabeth admired his ability to make it sound as though it was the best thing of his day to greet them. Although knowing him and Jane, it probably was.

When Bingley greeted with a good-natured grin, William nodded and acknowledged with a thin glimmer of a smile. "Darcy and I were just going to Longbourn to inquire after your health, Miss Bennet," Bingley explained, laughing. "Are you completely recovered?"

"Quite, thank you," Jane answered, just as Lydia let out a loud giggle and the two gentlemen's gazes flicked over to their side.

Elizabeth noted the exact moment when William and Wickham locked eyes: two angry spots of colour rose in William's cheeks, and Wickham's tanned skin paled, his ready smile fading.

They stared at each other, their expressions blank, until Wickham slowly touched his hat in salutation, a salutation that William just deigned to return, his face frozen in a haughty look that almost terrified Elizabeth.

William bowed to everyone with a deliberate slowness that made it known to Elizabeth that he was upset, then remounted his horse, apologised curtly to both his friend and the company (pointedly excluding Wickham), and cantered away. Mr. Bingley hurriedly made his excuses and rode off after his friend.

This incident clung to Elizabeth's thoughts like a London fog, and she wondered why William had been so angry. The only thing that could cause his cheeks to flush and his eyes to blaze was… what was it, exactly? The day was passed in a haze of confusion in which she was little more than a puppet, preoccupied by the incident which had so captured her attention.

She had noticed Mr. Collins's favour for Jane, and was more than a little dismayed to see it transferred to herself – most probably because her mother, desirous of reserving Jane for Mr. Bingley, had directed Collins to her, the next in line.

The house seemed to be enclosing her, and while a few days ago she had wanted nothing more than to put some distance between herself and William, now her desire was to run to him and tell him everything.

"What could have happened between them?" she wondered to Jane at bedtime.

"Perhaps one was wronged by the other, or more likely it was all a misunderstanding," Jane suggested, and her sister laughed. "Of course you would hold fast to the more agreeable explanation, dear, but with a man of Mr. Darcy's temper, I doubt it was a misunderstanding."

"I am inclined to think it was a particularly grave one; otherwise why would either of them dare to show themselves in the other's presence, if he had wronged the other?"

"Perhaps the wrongdoer was that insufferable."

"I cannot think so ill of either," Jane declared. "But Lizzy, I must beg for an explanation as to why this incident in particular has so seized your fancy."

How she wanted to tell Jane everything then! But that would leave Jane prejudiced against William, and rather uncharacteristically cautious against ever bringing her sister into company with him. Elizabeth schooled her features and said, "I was wondering why. I have no specific reason, actually."

Jane smiled. "Stop worrying, Lizzy, and let us go to bed."

* * *

The next morning, however, William was sitting in the branches, reading. His dark brows were drawn together in a look of almost painful control. "William?" she called.

He snapped his book shut. "I suppose you want to find out about the incident with Mr. Wickham yesterday?"

"Why, yes," she said, surprised.

He sighed. "Elizabeth… do you trust me?"

"Till the end of the world," she replied earnestly.

"Then you shall have to trust me here. It is not that I do not trust you with my life," he added, "it is just that my trust has been lately betrayed about my sister's reputation, so lately that I need time. Give me time, Elizabeth."

It would be false to say that she was not disappointed, but he clambered down and faced her. "It's no fault of yours," he hastened to assure her. "You are everything I need in a friend, but it is another friend's deficiencies that I must reconcile."

Something went unsaid, but neither could say what it was. Elizabeth wanted to tell him that she would trust him until the end of everything they knew and beyond, but the words would not come out. They stood there, William holding her hand, until he coughed and let go. "Must you return?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Not quite yet," she replied. "What do you need?"

All of a sudden he was embracing her, burying his face in her shoulder, and murmuring, "Forgive me." He wanted – needed, Elizabeth realised – human contact, human touch. Happy to oblige, she hugged him back, content with staying warm in his arms and let the world go hang.

While it stung to know she could not have this forever, she clung to this now with both hands, savouring each second until he pulled away. To her shock his lips brushed her cheek again. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble," she mumbled absently, still frozen. He laughed and kissed her forehead, electrifying her.

"Well, I must be off," said he. "Shall I see you tomorrow?"

"If I can manage it," Elizabeth replied, the queer buzzing feeling in the pit of her stomach making her feel warm and happy, like curling up under a blanket with Jane to read aloud while the room fire crackled in the hearth. He smiled, nodded, and turned away, the tip of his walking stick glinting in the early morning sunlight.

* * *

As agreed the night before, the sisters all went to the Phillipses' that afternoon, just after luncheon. When Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that Jane was right and there must have been a misunderstanding, for he was a truly amiable young man whose discourse was neither foolish nor finicky.

Elizabeth was rather surprised when he broached the subject of his acquaintance with William himself; he asked how long he had been staying at Netherfield. She gave a vague answer, wanting to appear curious but unknowledgeable. His response was a positive one, and Elizabeth dropped some hints that while he was polite, he was rather arrogant for everyone's taste.

He agreed! "The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen."

"I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."

Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," he mused, once the next opportunity came to speak, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer."

"I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the —shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."

"Oh, no! It is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing me, _he_ must go. We are on bad terms, and it always pains me to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with _this_ Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to me has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes, and disgracing the memory, of his father."

Now this was interesting. At first she had had no memory of the name Wickham – perhaps he had been an acquaintance during the four years she was missing from William's life? But no, he had been a friend of the late Mr. George Darcy, and he could not have known him without knowing William at least a year before her own friendship with him was severed.

And William would have told her if he had met Wickham then, would he not? _Would he not?_

The first opportunity he got, Wickham said, "The church ought to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now."

"Indeed!" Elizabeth was intrigued; what could he have to do with William?

"Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere."

"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth. "How could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?"

"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, by imprudence, in short, anything or nothing. The living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, but it was given to another man. I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely; nothing worse. But the fact is that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me."

A few words in Wickham's speech had caught Elizabeth's attention. The age he spoke of would have been twenty-four, and as that was two years ago, he would be six-and-twenty now. _Why, he is only a year younger than William_ , Elizabeth mused.

"That is quite shocking!" she cried, playing along. "Why have you not exposed him?"

"Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose the son."

 _You just did!_ Elizabeth thought triumphantly. _And there is the lie – although that is only number one_.

Elizabeth would have been quite taken with this if she did not already know William as deeply as she did – he would never do defy the wishes of his father unless he had a good reason. Still, these were accusations that were grievous enough to prejudice the whole neighbourhood against shy, reserved Mr. Darcy if they were spread quickly enough. The townspeople tolerated William and a few even liked him, but such a grave charge would no doubt turn the tide.

Yet she wanted to probe further. "But what can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"

"A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me."

"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him, I did not suspect him of descending to such malicious inhumanity as this."

They conversed at length about William, and Elizabeth explored Wickham's connection with him so as to cross-examine it later with either William's letters or the man himself. _Inmates of the same house, objects of the same parental care_. Wickham had told her he was George Darcy's godson; it rang a vague bell.

The conversation also turned to Miss Darcy, and Elizabeth remembered with an inward guilty start that William had a sister. Georgiana; the sweet young girl he would sometimes bring to the park with him because his father was too busy or her nurse too hassled to mind her. She had only been about four to seven years of age then, but a little girl as pretty as a girl can be, with bonny blue eyes and golden hair.

Proud? Elizabeth almost shook her head and denied his claims outright. Little Georgie could scarcely have grown up so proud. Her indiscriminate kindness was showered on superior and tenant alike. Even with a brother as arrogant as William sometimes was, she herself could not have been so.

 _But how would you know?_ Elizabeth's thoughts sneered. _You have barely seen even her brother for the past seven years and nothing at all of him for four; how would you know how she grew up?_

She continued to play along with him, gradually easing him in the subject until he felt quite reassured that she disliked Darcy almost as much as he might. So they ended the evening on amiable terms, and Elizabeth felt secure in the fact that she now had enough threads of his tale to check in William's letters if it was a lie or a truth – or a half-truth.

That night she dug out the large sheaf of letters and opened the very first one, the one at Christmas when she was seven. She read it as if for the first time, and her eyes widened as she read: '… _the most urgent of Mr. Wickham's letters._

 _'Oh, Lizzy, I forgot to mention that Mr. Wickham is the father of George Wickham. Yes, my father's godson. If you find yourself wondering why a steward would ask his employer to be godfather to his son, well, you need only look into the deep rapport shared by the elder Wickham and my father in years gone by…'_

The new militia officer could be none other than George Wickham, as these details fit perfectly with his story and his name. She scanned the other epistles for mention of him, and her eyes picked out certain phrases.

'… _I swear, he gets on my nerves just for the fun of it. Am I really that fun to bother? George seems a bit malicious at times_ …'

'… _George needs to rein himself in_ …'

'… _my friend George is gone and an entirely new young man is in his place_ …'

'… _another week of settling my god-brother's slowly growing debts_ …'

'… _a girl in Kympton is discovered to be with child and I think I know who the culprit is… He went to Kympton continuously for a fortnight_ … _I feel nothing but regret for him_ …'

'… _and I cannot be expected to compensate for George Wickham's shortcomings!_ '

' _Lizzy, I think he might be jealous of me… I am the heir and he is not, and he is used to being treated as my equal. Where is the boy I played with at home? I must say the girl has proved far superior, my dear Elizabeth…_ '

' _Where is the childhood friend who was my brother in all but blood?_ '

All these signs pointed to something going wrong between William and George Wickham, but what exactly was the story of the living? Which living was it?

From the sound of it, the extravagance and imprudence William was said to have cited as his reasons for not giving Mr. Wickham the living were not, in fact, nothing. William had not been grasping at straws to keep Wickham from gaining the living out of jealousy, or so Elizabeth thought, having accounts from both men about the other. Perhaps William had been genuinely trying to save the parishioners from a bad parson.

Rereading William's letters as a grown woman made Elizabeth realise just how much responsibility and expectation had rested on William's shoulders even at the ages of sixteen through nineteen, during which time his correspondence was almost non-existent, but what did exist was mostly accounts of business. Accounts, she now realised, must have been slightly toned down so that her young mind could find entertainment in it.

Elizabeth appreciated that still he did not try to romanticise the grinding work he had found it at the time even to a little girl. He complained in despair, he ranted in anger, admitting that he was human, but he also told her his boyish, but no less earnest, wish of being able to serve these people as long as he lived.

She understood the feeling. Having been educated as a son, Elizabeth had soon figured out that her father was an extremely indolent master, and picked up the slack herself.

Retying the stack and putting it on top of her personal items before shutting the drawer, the second Bennet girl squared her shoulders. She would get to the bottom of this.

* * *

William was sitting near the tree when she found him, the faraway, dreaming look in his eyes again. "Is there a special someone?" she teased, sitting beside him.

His expression burst into one of surprise. "I apologise for daydreaming." William swept his hair out of his eyes. "But what do you mean by 'special someone', in any case?" Poor man, he looked almost frightened!

"I meant, have you fallen in love with anyone?"

His eyes sparked, but his mouth opened and he said, "No." It was such a straightforward and characteristic answer that his companion was forced to take it as honest. Yet there was a way his eyes avoided her gaze that told her he was hiding something. "William, you know you can tell me."

"I cannot!" he cried, burying his face in his hands. "That is the agony! I want to tell you with all my heart but I cannot – I cannot – I cannot bring myself to make the words come out! Oh, Elizabeth! I'm sorry!"

Elizabeth nearly recoiled in shock. This was not a reaction she had expected, but still her arms went comfortingly around him and she laid her head on his shoulder, thinking, _I would be in so much trouble if my mother ever saw us like this. She might force him to marry me_.

She found herself nestled in a hug, and he breathed deeply, his nose buried in her hair. "You still smell like lavender."

As he had expected, she laughed. "It still is my favourite scent. What did you expect?"

"A year ago I did not expect to meet you again at all," said he, letting her lean back against the tree as he lay prone on the grass as usual. Today his coat was green and he had no walking stick, his dark hair clearly brushed down in haste and still damp.

"I have something to discuss with you that is rather serious," she said. "You saw George Wickham two days ago, and you reacted badly. Why? He was imprudent in your youth, but why hold it against him?"

He started, his eyes flashing a brilliant blue. "How did you find out about that?"

"I reread your letters."

"Oh."

"He lodged a few complaints," she continued, smirking. "Would you like to address them, sir?"

William understood, and said, "It was the living tale again, was it not? Really, he should have more imagination than that; I feel as though I have heard talk of it enough times to know it all by now. It is the Kympton living, the parish of which sits more or less three miles from Pemberley, he talks of.

"Sometime after the reading of my father's will – which he did not attend – Wickham showed up and told me that he did not in fact wish to take orders. _That_ was the condition my father had applied, but he refused to take orders and asked for the value of the living at once. I gave him the three thousand the living was worth, as well as the thousand pounds that was his bequest, and he cleared out."

"Four thousand pounds!" Elizabeth cried. "That would have been enough for more than five years, surely?"

"It should have been," he answered darkly. "But he spent it all in less than three in God only knows what manner, only contacting me when he had run out of funds. He told me he now wished to take orders and step into the living that had been his inheritance, but I refused him on the grounds that he himself had refused the living and had been compensated accordingly. He would never have made a good parson."

"I agree, based on your accounts of him in your letters. I do believe you complained about him every other paragraph!"

He smiled ruefully. "Yes, I suppose I did. I hope you forgave me my pettiness, but I too was a hot-blooded boy, and with such a temper you can believe that I was often resentful."

"I do forgive you, but pray go on."

"Well, that is about all there is to tell, except that about a year ago he came to me again for help in purchasing his commission, which I refused again. I became so angry at that meeting I might have actually struck him had I not remembered that a gentleman does not."

"You were _more_ than a gentleman to him, William!" Elizabeth sat up board-rigid, her eyes blazing. "Why would he ever think otherwise?"

William shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea!" The pair lapsed into silence before William murmured, "Perhaps he was jealous the way he said _I_ was. I would never have been jealous of him, but perhaps my father was crueller than he thought, indulging him like that. In an older man it would have done no harm, but in a young boy, it gave him unreasonable expectations about his station in life. He got too secure."

Elizabeth sighed. "Without that, how do you think he would have been?"

William played with the grass. "His father was a good man; I believe the George I knew could have been like that if he had not been taught to expect more. In fact, by now he might have been curate or rector of the Kympton living. I wish I could have done more… for at least the boy I once played with and loved as a brother…"

"It is not your fault!" Elizabeth insisted. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, it is not your place to correct others' mistakes. Not your father's, and certainly not Wickham's. It is his doing alone."

His shoulders slumped gloomily. "Dear Elizabeth… when you are the master of an estate miles round, with the responsibility for dozens, maybe a hundred or more, lives on your shoulders, when you fail your oldest friend by your own inaction, when you watch him crash and burn and want to save him though he thrashes and refuses to be saved… _then_ you can tell me that it's not my fault."

What could she say to that? She decided to try, as well as ignore the endearment before her name.

"Well, _I_ am the daughter of a lazy, inactive father, with four sisters I have loved almost since birth, whom I am responsible for. I see Lydia and Kitty prancing around and I want to tell them that it is not right to behave this way, yet they scorn my advice and continue. Do you think I don't know what you feel?"

William turned suddenly eloquent eyes to her, his lips opening and closing without leaving a sound on the air they breathed out. _I never knew you felt that way_ , his eyes seemed to say. _Do you really know?_

"Feeling so helpless is not something I take very nicely to," she admitted, continuing to talk although he had not replied, thinking that perhaps this was best for now. "The fact that it is all their own choice makes it more frustrating because we love them – or, at least, the vision of them they were."

At last he spoke, in a voice so soft she could have sworn it was simply the ghost of it, "You are far wiser than your twenty years, Elizabeth."

"I daresay you are wiser than I am."

"Indeed I am not, for at heart I am still the naughty boy I was when we were little," he laughed. "How did you learn all this?"

"When you live where I do, you learn to be content with what you have, but only if you truly can do nothing to change it. Look upon the past only as it gives you pleasure… but take to heart the lessons it teaches." Learning that had taken her most of her life, but she had at least done that.

"Aye," her friend agreed. "The hard part about that is that I only learned it when I felt it. At least I know you will not make my mistake."

"How do you know I have not already made it?" Elizabeth wanted to know.

"I… I do. I just do."

Elizabeth would have to be satisfied with that answer, but how? She was tired of walking on eggshells around William, tired of trusting him so blindly and so much.

That thought pulled her up short. Now _that_ was being slightly unfair to William. He was simply not ready, and she knew enough of him to guarantee that when he was, he would tell her all and everything. All she had to do was be patient with him, as he had been so many times with her years and years ago.

Still, the girl in her missed her best friend. And he seemed farther away than ever.

* * *

William cursed his cowardice.

He had walked the edge of that cliff, so close to losing his balance and saying it, but then he had clammed up like a moron! Stupid, useless, accursed shyness! How he wished he could blurt it out and have it over with, but his traitorous voice refused to let him open himself again. Not when the first time had so many grave consequences.

Even as he lay against the tree trunk, fingers toying with the fading wildflowers, the grass and loose rocks tickled his scars, a tingling sensation rising up in the tissue. They had been an immature, foolish boy's mistakes, and he had been crazy to make them in the first place. At least now they served as a reminder.

 _Look upon the past only as it gives you pleasure, but take to heart the lessons it teaches_.

He had learned this one well. Too well. William knew that if he unbuttoned his cuff and pulled down his sleeve, showed her the terrible slashes against alabaster skin, this would end. The Elizabeth who laughed in the sunlight could not be friends with a man who sulked in the shadow, even if he was the shadow of her best friend.

William had changed too much. Why would she love him when he himself could not bear to look into the mirror, afraid of seeing in his own face the gaunt, haunted features of the ghost he was just a year ago?

He had been a half-wit ninny. It was a wonder people looked up to him at all. At that point in his life, he had been a failure. Well, no more. William would be a good friend for as long as his Lizzy needed… until of course she cut it short when she was married.

God help him, he couldn't even push her away, not even for her own good.

But the scars would do that, would they not?

He would show her sometime.


	12. Of Temper and Temperance

**Hello, wolflings! It's been a long ride, and it's gonna be longer than the last one, but it's hopefully going to be better. I've struggled with this one, and the one that comes after it, because it touches on the subject of William's scars and what they mean (nope, not saying - spoilers, naughty naughty!). Continuing from the last chapter, this one switches POVs a lot. And I mean it's rather confusing.**

 **Also, William does a little bit of a Romeo thing later on. You'll see. But they don't talk. Those two never really talk. But that's the way everything is.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Oh, and I found a new fandom a week ago. So, enjoy this new chapter, and allons-y! (if you got that one you get a cyber-cookie! *SMILE*)**

 **~Alex**

* * *

William raked a hand through his hair in frustration. Wickham's charms reached further than he thought.

It had been a rough morning of it, but he had managed to make arrangements for Wickham's receipts to be sent to him from Pemberley. He had also gone around and looked – or at least tried to look – over the Meryton merchants' accounts, finding that Wickham had pulled in even more credit than he had suspected. Wickham had been in Meryton almost as long as he, and he had a marvellous talent for running up bills.

But he had done what he could without the receipts for Wickham's debts and his bequest. Some merchants had actually listened, but none of them had as yet taken his advice to stop giving Wickham credit. The infuriating thing was that he could hardly blame them.

William sighed, squaring his shoulders, the bone-sapping snowstorm grey lancing out of his eyes and replaced with sky-blue and sun-gold. Elizabeth's smile still lingered in his memory, and he had but to call on it and it would come, green and gold and happy. He liked that. So he summoned it and let a smile steal onto his lips as he walked, his boots clicking smartly against the cobblestone.

A soft giggle caught his ear, a giggle that came from somewhere it should not have. He turned, and saw Wickham – _oh God, that bastard_ – chatting with a girl outside a shop. Based on her clothing, she was a shopkeeper's daughter.

His vision sunk into black, and the click of his boots became more pronounced as he walked coolly up to the militia officer and said only, "Choose your second."

"What?" Wickham said, turning to look at the newcomer and paling when he saw who it was.

William bowed to the girl. "I apologise, but this should not be heard by you." He turned back to Wickham. "I challenge you to a duel." His cerulean eyes flashed blue fire. "As I should have done years ago."

"I choose Denny," Wickham replied confidently. "Although you really are sullying your reputation by challenging a mere steward's son, _gentleman_." Though his words were smooth, his amber eyes blazed.

"My second shall be Bingley, if he agrees," William responded. They shook on it, their grips tighter than necessary, and they went their separate ways, each roiling with anger and resentment, and William only truly realised what he had done when black exploded into electric blue. He halted in shock.

Having overheard them from a few feet away, there stood Elizabeth, eyes wide in terror.

* * *

He only escorted her a short distance out of sight of everyone in Meryton before he received a sharp slap to the face.

"FITZWILLIAM – GEORGE – ALEXANDER – DARCY!" she screamed at him between smacks.

William was confused, his mind whirling in a blur of colours. No, he could tell she was deliberately not hurting him, not really. It was just painful enough to send a pinprick of scarlet into his vision every time she slapped him, but not enough to actually hurt. Still, he held up his hands to defend his reddening face – and not all of the red was from smacking.

"You idiot! You stupid, moronic, outrageously honourable idiot!"

Finally she stopped slapping him and stood there instead, still glaring and breathing heavily. "Why did you do that?" she demanded. "You have as good as signed your own death warrant, you damned man!"

He started. Since when had Elizabeth used swear words? William was even more startled when she threw herself at him and shook him before hugging him close. "You are just so adorably honourable that sometimes I could kiss you, but this is _not_ one of those times," she choked, crying a bit.

His heart stopped. ' _I could kiss you…'_

That was not an easy thing to say, especially for a young woman in this day and age, but here she had out and said it without thinking. Was it because…? A small sprout of hope popped up in his chest. Could she really love him?

"Still unbelievably stupid though," she laughed thickly, such fondness in her voice as to take out all the sting. "Why did you have to go and challenge him?"

William sighed. "I saw him with a girl, and she was so young… she could not have been much older than your youngest sister, Lydia. I… I lost control, Lizzy. I did it and I cannot undo it. But I can fight my way through and make sure I survive to tell the tale. After all," he winked, "I cannot very well tell this story to Georgiana if I die, can I?"

"You idiot!" Elizabeth screamed, but all the sting was out of her words now, and she was laughing.

He spread his hands whimsically. "Well I need my voice to tell a story, Elizabeth!"

"That has not changed the fact that you challenged Wickham to a duel!" Elizabeth growled. "He is not even worthy of it!"

"He is at the least unworthy enough for me to get rid of," William growled, more to himself than in reply to Elizabeth. Black flickers of rage struck out at him as he remembered Georgiana's pure azure blue tainted by scarlet pain and the murky brown of what George had become. Oh, he knew she was hurting, however much she tried to hide it. He had hurt like that once. Only the murky brown was replaced by gold and green… and the one he had trusted had completely, wholly, deserved it.

Scratch it. He _still_ hurt like that.

Every time he remembered that one day she would remind him that he was unworthy, that one day he would have to make way for another man whom Elizabeth loved more than she did him, he hurt like that again.

* * *

The night before the duel was arranged, Elizabeth stayed up all night worrying.

She knew it was stupid – Nature would take its course whether or not she made herself sick with worry over the stupid Darcy who was sleeping soundly in Netherfield right now – but she did it all the same. It was in the silent spell between her bouts of tossing and turning that she heard it.

A soft _thwack_. Like a rock hitting the window.

There it was again. And again.

Elizabeth stood up, if only for something to do, and looked at the window. Another pebble struck the glass, and she looked up, then down. What she saw sputtered her brain and heart to a screeching halt.

William was standing outside.

His dark hair highlighted with silver, his cerulean eyes – as he had said – glowing in the dark even at the height of two floors, there he stood, his coat obviously put on hurriedly. He was looking up at her, and making a kind of gesture – oh! He wanted her to come down.

How? The doors were locked by now.

He sighed, dug what she could only guess was pen and paper, scribbled on it, then threw a white-wrapped rock up, nearly smacking her on the nose. The note read:

 _There is a vine near your sill. It looks sturdy enough for you to climb down on, but for God's sake put something on first. Something that can get torn. I will catch you if you fall, but one must prepare for eventualities._ **~William**.

She dove for a pen, wrote, and sent:

 _Are you insane? Can you imagine the trouble I will be in if I get caught sneaking out – for you of all people!_

Their argument continued, wasting paper and patience:

 _I only need a few minutes. An hour at most._ **~W**.

 _An hour might still be too long. It's nearly two in the morning! What were you doing anyway?_ **~E**.

 _I need to talk to you. The moon is bright tonight and I can still show you._ **~W.**

 _You can show me tomorrow_ **. ~E.**

 _You and I know very well I might not survive tomorrow._ **~W.**

 _Where was all the arrogance earlier, then?_ **~E**.

 _I am facing the truth, Elizabeth. Chances are that I will not survive tomorrow. It is to be with pistols, and George was always the better shot._ **~W**.

 _It was your choice, you pig-headed idiot._ **~E**.

At last he relented and chucked the rock up at her once more, before turning away to begin the three miles back to Netherfield. She opened the note, which she belatedly noticed was a new sheet, and read:

 _After tomorrow, you owe me a conversation. Promise me_ **. ~W**.

She smiled, and promised, "I owe you, William."

* * *

Morbid fascination, worry, fear, and disgust warred in Elizabeth's breast as she climbed Oakham Mount at barely six in the morning. She wanted to watch the duel, to make sure he was safe – but at the same time she cringed at the thought of seeing his pale face even paler with the white touch of Death.

Finally her – love? Affection, she decided – for him won out and she sat on a rock overlooking the field, trembling in every fibre. It was not out of cold, for indeed she had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and walks to Oakham Mount hardly chilled her, but out of terror. Her position was well-chosen, out of sight of any of the duellists while commanding a full view of the field itself.

Three figures already stood there: one with dark hair and a blue coat, one with red hair and a mahogany-coloured coat, and one with salt-and-pepper hair and a charcoal grey coat. One was William, one was his second, Mr. Bingley, and the third she surmised was the doctor.

William paced impatiently while the other two conversed in low tones, the sun slipping the barest bit higher. Finally two shapes became discernible from the Meryton mist – two men in scarlet coats, both dark-haired, one carrying a box.

Mr. Bingley took the box from the man on the left – Mr. Denny, Elizabeth was sure – and examined each pistol. "They are a pair?" he asked, for once without a hint of cheer in his tone.

"Sir William assured me it was so," Denny replied. Each second took a pistol and examined it again, then handed it to the other. Bingley turned to the principal duellists, who studiously avoided each other's gazes. "Back to back, now."

They obeyed only a little stiffly. "Twenty paces in a straight line each, opposite directions," Denny ordered. Once again William and Wickham obeyed, marching twenty paces away from each other in time to Elizabeth's pounding heartbeat. There was a lump in her throat, too, that pulsed with horror, but prevented her from shouting 'Stop!' as she wished.

The silence crushed her lungs and heart, as though Nature's own heart was thumping with fear and anticipation, holding its breath for this confrontation fraught with anger and resentment. _Be safe, William_ , Elizabeth prayed.

Each second handed a principal a pistol, then stepped well out of range, meeting at the centre mark. "Turn," Denny commanded. The principals faced away from each other. The doctor turned his back.

The tension was awful. Elizabeth was trembling even more, her entire being focused on the two men.

Three. Two. One.

"FIRE!"

The duellists whirled and fired, the report of their guns crackling over the field like a thunderbolt. Elizabeth's heart strained to jump out of her throat, where it had thrown itself as the gunshots rang out. Wickham stumbled – his shoulder was hit. William swayed, dangerously close to collapsing.

Yet neither of them yielded.

 _Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump_.

Elizabeth's blood roared in her ears, chest, and throat as the seconds came forward to check and reload the pistols. It seemed that each movement was clockwork, mechanical; the dreadful tattoo of her own heartbeat keeping time.

Her hands were cold, but her head felt uncomfortably warm. Were those hot tears in her eyes?

"Turn."

Three. Two. One.

"FIRE!"

Two identical shots. A silent scream tore from Elizabeth's throat, her vision blurred by the water that swam in it. She wiped her eyes with freezing fingers that felt strange in contact with her warm cheeks. Her heart was a hammer painfully beating against her throat, her legs brittle icicles forgotten until now…

William was swaying again, more emphatically now.

Wickham fell to his knees, and Elizabeth could hear his moan of pain. "I… yield…"

A small cloud of breath warmed Elizabeth's face, and she realised it was her own sigh of enormous relief. The dreadful pressure on her body relented, blood rushing back everywhere and warming her. Wickham was put on a stretcher, the doctor quickly working to clean and bandage his wounds. "I shall come by later, if you tell me where to find you," the grey-haired man told Denny.

"The inn, sir." With that, Denny half-carried his comrade back to Meryton.

William sat, unmoving, on the makeshift rock-stool as the physician cleaned his wounds. "You are rather lucky that the bullets did not lodge, Mr. Darcy."

"I know," he replied thickly, as though the blood oozing out of his wounds had clotted in his throat.

Silence, but the birds were chirping, the wind was blowing, and Elizabeth was breathing instead of the dreadful crescendo of that death-quiet until the shots were fired. The doctor finished with him and moved on into Meryton, while Bingley stood beside William as he rose.

Perhaps she had made a noise, she had no idea. All she knew was that William suddenly whirled to meet her gaze, and when he did, his eyes widened and he collapsed.


	13. Of Scars and Shards

**Well, apparently you get a twofer today. Either way, here's the next chapter. It might be another month or two before I can make a proper update, but yeah. Ciao - oohhh no, never using that one again. On to the chapter and allons-y, wolflings!**

 **~Alex**

* * *

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not quite sure where he was. He was not even sure _if_ he was.

Either way, he spiralled between paralyzing agony and empty numbness. There were spells of brief, blurry wakefulness, when he thought he recognised an object or two, but mostly it was blessed darkness. No colour, only feeling. Sometimes he thought he could isolate the pain, but other times his whole body was an inferno of hurt.

There were sounds, snatches of conversation:

"Is he alright? Will he be alright, doctor?" Charles's voice. Yellow, but otherwise Charles's homey russet.

"William, keep clinging to life." Green and gold _. Oh God, Elizabeth, no!_ "I shall never forgive you if you die now. God help me, I am crying, William!"

 _No, never weep for me, Elizabeth. Never, never for me_.

There was no way to keep track of time in this soothing darkness.

A stab of pain shot through a place that must have been somewhere near his arm, trembling through his ribs into his heart. He gasped for breath, the darkness bleeding into painful light. His eyes lanced, throbbing with light after having so much dark. His dry lips parted as his tongue weakly flickered out to try to get water from air.

Once the pain subsided, he just remembered how to say 'Water' before the scarlet stabbed him again and he slipped back into half-dead consciousness.

He sort of remembered gulping down something cool and tasteless that yet tasted sweet to his parched throat – looked blue. Nothing else. But he slipped into a painless dream afterwards – bless actual sleep – a dream of gunshots and sunrises and _oh God was that Elizabeth?_

Crying…

 _Never weep for me_.

Like an arrow to his heart, the pain festered, glowing scarlet and black and orange. Wickham, _touching_ and _holding_ Georgiana! No – had to stop them – save her – just a split second too late and now – his sister was gone and it was all his fault –

Failure. Helplessness. Pride. Resentment. Anger. His flaws, his fatal flaws. Scarlet spilling out of him while he tried to cancel out his mistakes – the world going black before his eyes…

Green and gold, but too far away. Broken thoughts that stopped and faded before even the gold of their life could begin to shine. Darkness. Light. Shards of consciousness like broken mirror. A random thought: _I would like to start painting sometime._

And suddenly he broke back to the living world with a gasp like a surfacing swimmer.

A headache smacked him immediately afterwards, making him sorry he ever woke up. The light hurt, his shoulder and arm hurt, and honestly, everything hurt. He licked his lips and croaked, "Drink."

"I suppose it is rather surprising to find a man playing nursemaid," Charles chuckled, snapping his account book shut and getting him a glass of water. "But Miss Elizabeth needed to go home and I would trust Caroline with you only as far as I could spit. Not that I would." He made a face. "Here you are."

William swallowed the water slowly, letting the cold drink wash around his mouth deliciously before letting it cool his throat. Charles now appeared to have acquired a new look – a brightness in his bluish-grey eyes – that made him seem more perceptive, made his russet red sharper, though William knew he had been so all along. "Thank you."

"Saying that, I shall have to go over and get Miss Elizabeth. She will be glad to know you are awake, if not quite well. Oh, and your sister is here as well, with your cousin the colonel too."

A rush of rose brought William up to a sitting position. "How are Georgiana and Richard here?"

"I invited them," Charles stammered. "Is that alright? I mean –"

"No, thank you again, Charles. It _is_ your house, after all. But thank you again, and thank you a thousand times, my friend!" It was only when William stopped smiling due to the pain in his head that he realised he was too tired to keep up the sitting position. He slid back down.

"Of course, you must be exhausted. It took you nearly a week to shake off that nasty fever that dogged you after the duel." Charles's more ebullient self was showing in his smile and his tone.

A week.

 _You were ill for a week. Delirious for nigh on two days, then dancing on the line for five more_.

"Georgiana," he mumbled, before lying back. "Charles, please bring me my sister." He felt a little ashamed about giving the master of the house orders, but his lips refused to move to apologise. "Please."

"As you wish!"

A minute later, a slim young girl slid into the room like a shadow, and William's sight filled with sky blue, brown, and scarlet – although less of the latter two than before – as he looked up and saw his sister. She had grown since he had last seen her, as is the nature of a young girl of fifteen, but she also looked happier, and the sparkle in her bonny blue eyes, just a shade off his own, told him more than words could.

What he was confused about was how this progress was made. She had been a forlorn little thing even more wraithlike than she was now, heartbroken and self-reproaching. Grey. Now her natural blue had returned and even though scarlet and murky brown accompanied it the gleaming azure shone. How?

"Brother, what on God's good earth possessed you to challenge George Wickham to a duel?" she demanded sternly. William was quite frankly amazed. How had this happened? A month and a half ago she could not even speak Wickham's name, and now she was chastising him for challenging the scoundrel? Saints above, what was this sorcery?

"Georgiana? Who are you and what happened to my shy little sister who believed her brother could do no wrong?" he laughed. Suddenly the pleasant laugh turned into a hacking cough as his lungs tried to jack up the air he needed.

"Fitzwilliam!" It ashamed William a little to say that he was a bit reassured by the panic in her voice. For a moment his sister had reminded him – too much – of Elizabeth. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes I am," he choked. "Just… water?"

"Of course!" The next minute a glass was being held to his lips and his throat felt less dry than before.

When he had finished, she set the glass on the table. "Fitzwilliam, where are you hurt?"

"My left leg and my left upper arm," he answered, pointing. "Wickham tried to destabilise me first, and he did. Then he went in for the kill. He missed my heart, but he very nearly guaranteed me a useless shoulder; the bullet almost shattered the bone, or so I was told." He leaned back wearily. Even thinking cost effort, something he did not have a lot of at the moment.

"Could Lizzy drop by later to check on you?"

The sudden question startled him. "Lizzy?"

"Miss Elizabeth," Georgiana replied simply. "Our friend."

"Oh. Since when were you two on such familiar terms?" His sister – friends with Elizabeth? Well, that was what he had been planning to do, but… he could not help but feel jealous of his sister, who could spend however long she wanted in Elizabeth's company and never once be scolded for it.

"Since I came," Georgiana responded happily. "She has been so kind, Brother, and so – so – well, not condescending! She does not treat me like a child to be humoured and made much of, she treats me like an adult whose company is to be enjoyed. Best of all, she talks of you as a true friend does, and she is not fishing for information because she already has all of it! Do you have any idea how refreshing it is?"

"I think I do, sweet," he laughed, suddenly feeling guilty. Had _he_ been treating her like a child? Was he included in that group?

"I knew you did, although it was probably because people spoke to you as a miniature adult even when you were only twelve, simply because you were male and you were the firstborn. I recall something you said when _I_ was twelve, Brother – 'You see, Georgie, it is the females and second sons who get to be immature. The first sons have to be all grown up.' Did you mean that?"

William blushed. He had been a bit tongue-loose than was good for him when that statement had come out of his mouth – it was Christmas Eve of 1807 and William had felt so lonely. "I suppose there was some truth that even a blind Darcy could get at," he confessed. "I used to think that."

"What about now?"

"No, sweetling, I do not anymore. Society thinks more of adults than of children, and so children are required to grow up as soon as possible, regardless of who they are or what their sex is." Suddenly he felt heavy and exhausted; his eyes dropped closed despite his efforts to keep them open, and before he knew it he was blinking awake to Georgiana's laugh and "I shall see you later, Brother."

Relieved at being left alone to sleep, William surrendered to slumber. Georgiana watched her brother's eyes fall shut, a stir of unwanted memories – a deathly pale face in the snow, feverishly bright, unseeing cerulean eyes – being pushed back from her mind. He was safe. Her brother was safe, and so was she.

She smiled, and exited, softly swinging the door shut behind her.

* * *

The next time he woke up, green and gold exploded into his mind and heart with a thrill of happiness. Instantly he knew who occupied the chair beside his bed, reading. Experimentally, because the last thing he wanted was to collapse from a simple sitting position in front of Elizabeth, he tested his shoulder. It felt alright, as long as he moved it slowly and not too far. William slowly pulled himself up, leaning against the baseboard, not making the slightest rustle.

He took a silent, deep breath, then greeted the brunette: "Hello, Elizabeth."

She jumped, book falling out of her hand. "Fitzwilliam!" she exclaimed, a teasing scowl on her face. "Are you allowed to be sitting like that?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea."

He almost jumped out of his skin when Elizabeth darted forward to throw her arms around him, mindful of his injured shoulder. "You were so close, William," she said. "Even with immediate medical attention, your fever rose so high that Mr. Charles and I feared for your life."

He laughed. "Mr. Charles?"

"Oh yes, I forgot to tell you!" she cried, bouncing back into her chair. "Mr. Charles asked Jane for a courtship last week, but sadly you were not awake to hear the news. He told us not to call him 'Mr. Bingley' anymore, but we had no idea what to call him. He said his sisters call him Charles, but we all agreed that only Jane should call him that for now. So we all settled on Mr. Charles."

William had to laugh again, although he choked a little on his dehydrated throat. Groping for the carafe of water, he poured himself a glass and downed it in one go. That felt much better.

"Now, I owe you a conversation," Elizabeth said brightly, brown eyes twinkling. "Spill, William."

Dandelion panic. Orange fear. No, not now. He needed her now. "N-not now, please… later, when I feel I can. I need you now, Lizzy…."

"What do you mean, you idiot?" she demanded. "You always have me. Please, tell me now."

He could not bring himself to tell this young woman that one day she would love another more than him, that he could not always have her. His shaking fingers crept to his right cuff and pulled down the sleeve of his shirt. "Look there," he requested, quietly and shakily.

Elizabeth obediently looked, and was horrified.

On William's arm crisscrossed what must have been scores of scars, thin and thick and sometimes knotted. Sometimes deep, sometimes shallow and nearly invisible. The slightly darker lines made a patchwork of his skin, a terrible pattern of pain. She raised her finger to them and traced the rough tissue as tenderly as she could. "Where did you get these, William?"

He seemed to be choking on his own voice, but at last his strangled answer was understood. " _I_ made them."

"Why did you make them?" she cried, horrified. When had he done this to himself? Why? Oh, she was such a horrible friend! She should have been there, but no, she was here in Hertfordshire nursing her blasted pride and now look at what she had done!

"Because I was a blind, selfish idiot!" he roared, spooking her. "I was mired in my grief at my parents' passing, and what did I do? I ignored my sister, who needed more comforting than me; my cousins, who tried to help me; and my tenants, who needed me! What kind of a master do you think I am now? What kind of an excellent brother is that? Even now Pemberley and Georgiana are paying for my mistakes!"

"Do _not_ talk like that!" Elizabeth shouted, silencing him. "You were a man who should have been too young for it, and you are still so young for a man with your level of responsibility. Stop giving me this balderdash!"

He was pulled up short. "You have no idea how foolish I was. My estate suffered for years because my _poor little feelings were hurt_." His tone was deliberately childish, mocking himself with a hint of bitterness. Elizabeth had no idea what to make of this side of her best friend. She loved him all the same, but she wanted to heal this festering wound in him.

"By whom?" she asked quietly, anger like she had never felt before rising in her throat. Whoever did this to William would certainly pay.

As if he had heard her thoughts, William said, "The person who did this has paid enough, Elizabeth. And that person was wholly worthy of it."

A pang of jealousy. A streak of sadness. William cared so much about this person that Elizabeth began to wonder. "Who is it, William? I at least want to know. I promise you no vengeance will be wreaked." She tried to sound light, but guilt weighed on her shoulders like stone.

William stared at the scars, cut by penknife and mirror shard and candelabrum. "It was us, as we were many years ago," he whispered. "It was me, stressed and worn out, and you, rejected and hurt."

Elizabeth at first did not understand, but when she did she drew William close and rested her head on his shoulder. Despite the impropriety of the action, neither minded. It reassured both of them that the other was there, solid, and alive.

"You're not angry?" she felt rather than heard him say.

"Never for this." Emboldened, Elizabeth raised her head and pressed her lips to his cheek. "William, never for this. And you are not angry?"

"Never for your mistakes. We are so fallibly human, Elizabeth!" The last came out with a half-chuckle as his good arm came up to hug her closer, and he leaned into her as much as she leaned into him.

"We are," she agreed, smiling. They remained that way, arms wrapped around each other, for a long time. They had forgiven each other their youthful mistakes, assured that the other's wrath would never be excited by a misunderstanding they both regretted.

Both of them wondered: _Would you be angry if you knew I loved you?_


	14. Of Screams and Storms

**Hello wolflings!**

 **Sorry for the delay, but I was editing The Paths Not Traveled and I only rebooted a little this summer. In any case, here's the next chapter! Thank you for waiting, and hopefully you don't have to wait so long for the next one...**

 **Enjoy!**

 **~Alex**

* * *

Elizabeth found herself (and Jane) wandering more and more over the boundary to Netherfield, and Mr. Charles and Georgiana wandering more and more over the boundary back to Longbourn, as time passed. Georgiana nearly always brought Elizabeth back with her to talk and visit William, and strangely, everybody seemed content with this arrangement.

Miss Bingley was not quite so content with this arrangement, but William and Mr. Charles were both very emphatic on the point that she was not allowed to disturb it, so she sulkily conceded. Elizabeth and Georgiana largely avoided her; the former because she was unsure if she could resist playing with her a little, and the latter because she was just a bit intimidated by Mr. Charles' sister.

The group Elizabeth liked to think of as 'the inside group' gathered in William's room very often. Mr. Charles, Jane, Georgiana, Colonel Fitzwilliam, herself, Mary (when time and Mr. Collins allowed) and, of course, William. Mr. Charles let on that he had planned a ball for the 26th, but had postponed it until William could at least watch, and he and William had argued about it at length.

Elizabeth grew closer to the young Georgiana, whose chief hobby was the pursuit of music. William's sister was a girl born to play music, no matter on what instrument. She possessed a talent and love for it that Elizabeth had only seen in the greatest and most beloved musicians; when she played, she played with her whole heart.

She was shy like her brother, but Elizabeth was pleased to note that despite Mr. Wickham's claims she was neither proud nor conceited. Surprisingly, the young lady had some very decided opinions of her own, which helped Elizabeth re-evaluate and add to the impression Georgiana left as a child.

In fact, the manner in which she encountered the girl had been expressive enough of her newly exhibited decisiveness.

William's cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, was a man whose company must be very sought-after in any social circle he moved in (even if his Christian name was Richard). Elizabeth grew to like him as well, and laugh along with Georgiana at his light and casual jokes and sarcasm. As Elizabeth spent more time in his company when William was asleep, he showed himself to be genuinely very fond of the Darcy siblings, often treating them like a beloved younger brother and sister instead of the distant manner Elizabeth was used to from her own grown cousin Matthew Phillips.

He was only on leave for a few weeks, and then only because of William's injury, but Elizabeth learned more from him about William's maternal family. His twin siblings Alex and Lily appeared to be very sympathetic and empathetic cousins, and she liked them already. Lily, Richard explained, was an accidental nickname for his older sister Elizabeth – which tickled our Elizabeth to no end.

Of course, _Elizabeth_ was a common enough name, and the Bennet had encountered other Elizabeths in Meryton and Longbourn, but none of them had had the nickname Lily. It was refreshing, and she liked refreshing.

It started snowing again sometime in late November, around the time Bingley would have thrown his ball if William had been able to watch. He grew even sulkier at not being able to spend any time outside in the snow, and at one point frustrated everyone to the point that the whole group gathered in Mr. Charles' sitting room to cool off after arguing with him.

Christmas was coming up, and Elizabeth was torn between spending the day with her family – after all, the Gardiners were coming over for the holiday – and spending the day with William, who had never experienced a Bennet Christmas. They would have to solve that problem when it came up more urgently, as William's temper only grew worse as he tested his healing muscles and found them too weak to use.

William would not be William without the faults that she had come to accept in him, and while Richard and Georgiana continued to apologise for his childish petulance with his confinement at times, she could honestly say it was no bother.

At least, it was no bother when he was acting like an adult.

William was tossing and turning, as much as he could with a shoulder and leg that hurt like the blazes, and once again he had tried walking and failed. It had been only a month since his injury and his left leg muscle had been hit, resulting in a wound that could take months if not a year to fully recuperate, according to both the physician and Richard. The latter had left a week ago.

Elizabeth was trying to convince him of this when a low snarl interrupted her. "That is as encouraging as it gets."

The sarcasm in that tone startled her, and she gave a weak smirk. "I do try."

"Devil take this whole situation," William growled, turning to face her. The swearing did not faze her as much as his rage did – she was staring at a firestorm raging in his blue eyes, the gold and blue burning fiercely. "I have had enough of encouraging, _Miss Bennet_. Leave. Me. _Alone_."

Stung, she snapped, "I am trying, alright? I have never been faced with anyone so recently injured, let alone been one myself. I am sorry if I am inadequate for the situation, _Mr. Darcy_ , but I try because you are my dearest and best friend and I – I care!" She bit back the unwitting confession hastily.

"Go away!" His anger scared her in more ways than he knew. She had never seen him like this.

Finally the frustration of having to put up with a man who unpredictably switched between brooding adult and petulant child while still being as opaque as possible concerning his own recovery burst out of her. She had been dealing with this for a month, and she was tired of it. Did he, in his own little world, not understand that she herself had a heart and a soul like his own capable of being injured?

After last time, had they _still_ not learned?

She was tired of it! "I am not trying to be flippant or irritating, do you understand? Your anger frightens me because it comes from seemingly nowhere and is so intensely all-consuming. It frightens me because those scars on your arm are testament to what your anger and despair can do. It frightens me because one day I could come here to your cold dead body and I will not have been enough to stop you. Don't you understand?"

"I stopped understanding you a long time ago, Elizabeth!" he roared, sitting up and focusing on her with intensity and depth that startled and scared her. "Now _leave. Me. **Alone!** "_

"I will never!"

His lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl, and it was his turn to push away hot, angry tears as he choked, "You did it once before. Go ahead, do it again."

Elizabeth scarcely knew what she was doing before William was recoiling with a shocked expression on his tear-streaked face. She had stood and faced him. "Listen to me, Fitzwilliam Darcy!" she cried. "I did it once before and look at what I did to you! I will never let that happen again because _I care!_ I care deeply about what happens to you and if you cannot believe me that is my fault, do you understand?"

But William had clapped his hands over his ears, and now thundered, " ** _Shut up!_** "

Elizabeth fell quiet and backed away into her chair, stunned. _Never_ , in all his life, had William ever been so rude.

Not even when he was furious had he ever screamed at _anyone_ to shut up.

She almost literally felt her heart curl up and shrivel inside her chest and wanted to flee to the safety of Longbourn more than anything, but the rope that tethered her to this room, to this impossible man, was the shine of tears on his cheeks.

For an eternity and a moment the only sound in the room was William's broken sobbing.

He was still sitting up, hunched in a ball on the bed with his hands still clapped over his ears. Each crystal teardrop hung off his long dark lashes before tracing his face and dropping onto the quilt.

The sound of a cough had Elizabeth whirling around and William dodging back under the covers. In poked the concerned faces of Charles Bingley and Thomas Bennet. Elizabeth gave them a weak smile and a nod towards the misshapen lump on the bed that was William hiding under the sheets. Both men nodded silently and retreated back around the door, likely guarding it from any other interruptions.

Elizabeth felt almost as though William were a wild animal who might bite her if she went too far. She reached out for him and said, "William, they left. We are alone."

"I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."

His voice was small and contrite, like a child who had done a great wrong only to come back with tears in his eyes and voice. "I never learn. Oh God, why can I never learn?"

Even timidly curled up in her chest, Elizabeth's heart reached out for William. "Never learn what?" she asked, her hand carding through his curls of its own accord. Although his hair felt very nice…

"I never learn how to control myself," came his miserable answer.

"William, it was never about controlling your emotions," she answered. Growing up in a house with four sisters and a nervous mother had taught her that sometimes holding yourself back was the worst possible solution. "You need to learn that I will always be here for you, no matter where I go or who I become."

"Or whom you marry?" His tone was surprisingly bitter even as he wriggled closer to where she could more easily reach his hair. She laughed and ruffled it before continuing to comb her hands through it.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"Will you always be here for me no matter whom you marry?" he repeated, curling up even tighter than she thought was possible.

"I thought we already clarified that I would never marry except for the deepest affection." How could he think she would ever settle for anyone else? For it would be settling if the man whose surname she took was not Fitzwilliam George Alexander Darcy. For all his petulance and his insecurity, he was the most liberal and the kindest man she knew, and the only one she had ever dreamed of loving.

"You shall find him, one day, you know."

"Who?"

"The man you shall marry. Someday, though it seems unimaginable, Elizabeth, you will love a man even more than you love your father or your mother or your sisters."

"I already do," she murmured.

"Who would that be, then?" How bitter he sounded!

Her lips opened, but nothing came out. She settled for skirting around the question: "Why does that matter? For now, I am here, and I promised I will always be."

"No, you shall not." His voice was muffled now, for presumably he had turned his face into a pillow. "One day you shall need someone more than you need me, and you will break your promise and go with him."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. He really was like a boy sometimes, what with all the histrionics. And she could never, ever, need anyone more than she needed him. She loved him too much. "I shall never."

"You say that now." A sardonic laugh hissed into the air. "You will apologise a year, two years, five years, from now, when you sign a new surname to your letter."

"Stop talking like this!" she ordered exasperatedly. "Stop talking as though I will ever leave you alone!"

"But you _will!_ " He sat up abruptly, tugging her hand from his hair and running it over the sleeve she knew covered his scars. "These are proof you did it once, and the next time you do it you shall have a better reason for it."

"Stop telling me that!" Elizabeth growled, her voice rising in frustration. Why was he always so blind? "Stop saying I will ever love any man more than I love you!"

For the second time that day, stunned silence filled the room, this time emanating confusion from William. He had sat up completely and was staring at her in shock, vulnerability screaming out of every feature in his face. Elizabeth herself coloured highly when she remembered what she had just said.

"Oh God," she moaned, covering her face. Her biggest secret and here she had just blurted it out to the one person she could never tell it to – and she had been so determined not to. It sounded like something out of those silly romantic novels Lydia loved to talk about getting (much to the consternation of her parents). This was utterly ridiculous and she now wanted more than anything to escape.

William seemed to be struggling to decide what to do, so she awkwardly stumbled up from her seat and –

She was immobilised by a pair of arms wrapping around her from behind and pulling her into a sitting position on the bed. William hissed as he pulled his bad shoulder, but he held on so tightly that even if she wanted to Elizabeth could not have pulled away.

"William, let go. You are injuring yourself."

"I _don't care_ ," he replied in a vehement whisper. "I care nothing for that."

Elizabeth managed to get enough room to twist a little to her right so that she could reach William's head. She pulled her fingers through his hair affectionately. Silence reigned until a loud knock on the door had William recoiling onto the other side of the bed and Elizabeth bouncing back into her chair.

It was Georgiana. "Lizzy, Jane told me to tell you that your father wishes to return to Longbourn. At the moment I believe she is making her farewells to Mr. Charles." She giggled audibly, though thank goodness she kept the volume down. "And Brother, if you would take your head out of your shell, Miss Lizzy must say goodbye for today."

"Alright, Georgie," William grumbled to his sister, making both girls laugh. "Since when did you get so feisty? You are a veritable Amazon."

"Oh, come now, Brother," Georgiana cried.

William laughed, his cerulean eyes shining with the sparkle of old. "I cannot get out of bed, Georgiana, so stop mocking your poor old brother and let me get some rest."

Georgiana glided into the room and sat on her brother's bed. "You will never be 'my poor old brother'," said she, smiling more quietly at her older sibling. "Though we both have grey hair and wrinkles, you shall still be my dear Fitzwilliam, and that is that."

William's mouth kicked up at the corner. "And even if you marry and have five children, you shall still be my darling Georgiana, and that is that," he told her, pushing himself up to kiss her forehead.

Georgiana pulled a face. "You have gone sappy very early, brother dear."

"And have you grown so caustic, sister mine?" William flashed her a mischievous grin. "Elizabeth, have I to blame you for turning my own sister against me?" His playful grin was back, and the heavy silence that had hung in the room a few minutes before was pushed aside, to be addressed another day.

Elizabeth smirked. "No sir; that was entirely your own doing. I had no hand in it," she sang innocently.

He nodded, and leaned closer to her ear, his breath tickling her neck, to whisper, "Farewell, dear Elizabeth. But do not imagine that I will let this go; we shall speak on this subject once more to-morrow morning."

She tried to ignore the endearment, and whispered in his ear, "To-morrow morning it is, then, William. Farewell."

With that, she took Georgiana's hand, and the two of them walked down to where Georgiana would make her own farewells to her friend, leaving Georgiana's brother staring at the patchwork of scars on his arm with a wistful furrow to his dark brows.


	15. Of Life and Love

**Hey!**

 **I honestly had no idea what to name this chapter, but since this opens with Lizzy and ends with Georgie and Theo's meeting, I thought the title could stretch. Apparently I've been missing this story too much, because I wrote this in just about a day.**

 **Observant fans may have noticed that I took _To Be A Darcy_ and _Tidings from Pemberley_ down. That's because I just realized that the things I wrote down in _Tidings from Pemberley_ would probably do better in TBAD, and TBAD's plot was shaken up big-time by Theo and Georgiana meeting earlier, George Wickham's ambiguity on the moral spectrum (and I'm keeping him ambiguous), etc. **

**So I hope you will forgive me for breaking my promise, but the story calls, and so I sally forth to make as much of a mark as I can in your minds! (That sounded a lot better in my head.)**

 **Anyway, enjoy! -Because this is likely all you're going to get before July, at the rate I'm going.**

 **~Alex**

* * *

William was playing his violin when she came in. "Dr. Perry said it might be good exercise for my bad shoulder," said he, without turning around. "I am fortunate it was not my right shoulder, as it would greatly hinder my ability to play."

The melody was hauntingly slow, and when he drew his bow across the strings for the last time, the notes echoed in the air like the ghost of a question. He stored his violin away and turned to face her with a more or less calm countenance. "I assume you wished to continue our discussion of yesterday?"

"Yes." Elizabeth was shaking mildly now. What kind of a weak little girl was she, to run away? She would not run. She left the door open and sat on the edge of his bed.

"I apologise for being so petulant yesterday. I was more than a little touchy about the subject of my injury. Elizabeth, I have no illusions. I shall likely never have the same extent of function in either my shoulder or my leg again, and that is a very hard thing to accept in a man like me. Though I challenged him in the first place and knew this could happen, it still stings to know that I shall forever be a little unbalanced in my movements."

"Is this a pride problem?" Elizabeth asked softly.

"No. Only a matter of acclimatisation. I am accustomed to performing at a high standard, and then suddenly I have lost some of the function in two things I use every day. I never realised how very much I used my left shoulder to move until I injured it and could no longer move it as much. It is difficult, to say the least."

"You shall get most of your abilities back," Elizabeth tried to reassure him.

"I know that. It is simply a question of getting used to it." William shrugged. "And to the fact that my wounds will likely ache in winter and bad weather for the rest of my life. Richard helps – he truly does – but to face it myself is startling and humbling."

"I think I can understand some of that," she told him. "You are forgiven; you know that."

He gave her his brilliant smile; the one that brought out the small dimples in his cheeks and the thousand-sky spark in his eyes. "And here we come to the argument. Elizabeth, the reason I was unwilling to accept that you cared about me was because I was already struggling to accept that someday you would care for someone else more."

"And I told you I never would," she repeated, sensing that he needed to hear it again. "I tried not to tell you, because – William, you are a Darcy. Please do not take this in any way as something you need to do, or even something I want you to do."

"I am a Darcy?" he repeated, confused. "What – ah. I see." He looked up, then down, then at her. "I have thought about this on and off for years and years, Elizabeth Bennet, and I have long since reached a conclusion."

Elizabeth nodded, a lump rising in her throat. "May I say it again?"

"You may say it any time you wish," William murmured, and for a moment she heard herself in his vulnerability.

She slid her arms around him, snuggling into him, before pressing her cheek to his. "I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. That is the only way I can describe it, I suppose, because everything happened while I was looking back at the past. And I want you to know, Fitzwilliam Darcy, that now I regret none of it, because it made us who we are, hurt but healing. Something I need you to remember while you heal is that I love you. _I love you_."

William pulled back and shushed her softly, his eyes shining with the dreamy brightness she had noticed that day on the way to church. "As I love you, my Elizabeth."

For once, Elizabeth did not try to ignore the endearment before her name. They sat there, noses pressed together and breaths mingling, for an eternity and a moment. Elizabeth's heart, first so timid and then so sympathetic, beat confidently and warmly now that she knew. He was never truly going to go.

William let the tears fall as soft rose and rose gold and gold and green bled together in the edge of his vision. For the first time since that October fifteenth four years ago, his tears were of joy. She was never going to leave, never, and he held onto that fact like a lifeline. In that eternal moment, William knew that finally, a scar of four years would be – not healed, scars don't heal, but – soothed, so that it would never smart again.

Once more the three words that might as well have been magical were breathed into the space between, and William's vision was blue and silver and green and gold, brilliant and sharp and _perfect_.

" _I love you_."

" **I love you**."

* * *

William was in an unusually good mood for the rest of the day, and his sister guessed the reason.

George Wickham was an unpleasant memory, but since she had met Lizzy, she had learned that he was simply that – a memory. Lizzy had taught her, slowly, that even in person, Wickham only had as much power as she was willing to give him, and Georgiana never wanted to give Fitzwilliam reason to challenge anyone to a duel again.

As a result, the intelligent and quietly confident girl that had been before Ramsgate began to emerge once again, especially when Lizzy and Fitz treated her like an adult whose company was worthwhile and enjoyable as an equal. It was amazing and refreshing when the man she had respected and adored as both brother and father talked and acted as though she was on his level, worthy of _his_ respect.

Exposed for hours at a time to Lizzy's confident boldness and impertinent outspokenness, as well as her gentle kindness and staunch loyalty, Georgiana felt the freedom to see with her own eyes and hear with her own ears was truly hers.

Of course, she was overjoyed that the two people she saw most as family were totally, irrevocably in love with each other. She was not so overjoyed that they seemed to be wilfully blind to this fact.

When her brother, after having a screaming match with Lizzy the day before, was in an almost blissfully good mood, flashing his sister the dimple smile every five minutes, she knew immediately that the screaming match had ended well.

"Did you tell her?" she asked, quietly.

He choked. "How –?"

"Brother, never make the mistake of assuming I am blind. That silly smile you keep giving me is proof enough, and the fact that you are unusually compliant today only cements my conclusion. You did, did you not? And she said it back."

He pulled a face. "Were we really that transparent?"

Georgiana laughed. "Mr. Charles owes me two shillings. He bet that you would not be able to say it."

Fitzwilliam's blanch was really quite entertaining. "Georgiana Adelaide Darcy, do not tell me you made a bet!"

The girl smiled at her brother. "No, of course not, Fitz. I would never."

Fitz reached for his correspondence again. "I have to return to Pemberley as soon as I recover, for the accounts are now in such disarray. There are quite a few things that require my signature, and I have not been there for three months. Would you like to remain until I can take you home with me?"

"Yes!" she cried, hugging her brother with careful thought for his injured shoulder. "Thank you, Brother!"

A knock on the door startled both siblings, and Fitz's grin was telling. "Hello, Theo! I thought you were busy? And abroad?"

"The day I am too busy to pay back a favour to my old friend is the day I say Fitz Darcy is more suave than I," the tall gentleman deadpanned, sweeping into the room with a bow. His curly black hair was as impeccably styled as always, and his sharp and perceptive eyes were a fetching amber gold. His smirk was more mischievous than sly, and yet Georgiana felt the prickling of alarm in the back of her chest.

He reminded her of George Wickham. The amber eyes, the sure smirk, the suave good looks, all of it.

And yet he rang a vague bell… he looked rather familiar. Theo – oh! Theodore Brougham, who had been her brother's most intimate university friend. Theodore Brougham was the master of Westmarch, a property about the same size as Pemberley if not a little bigger. It was not far from the Darcy ancestral home, but he rarely visited, for some reason.

Fitz sat up. "Thank you, though, for coming. I informed Charles and he was alright with putting you up here."

"Ah, no thank you," Brougham answered. "I checked in on Bingley and he was rather shocked to see me. I have a room booked at the inn in any case, so no need to trouble your poor friend. Proper greetings must come first, old friend. Good morning, Darcy!" He bowed to the gentleman and shook his hand. "And… Lord, is this little Miss Georgiana?"

"Yes, sir," Georgiana answered, a bit tartly. "I am she." She rose and curtsied.

Brougham bowed. "It is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Miss Darcy. I suppose you recall me?"

She nodded. She did in fact remember him. He was a skinny curly-haired adolescent the last time _she_ saw him, but she remembered him as a young man confident to the point of arrogance. No matter where he was, he commanded his surroundings with a charisma that seemed both unwitting and controlled.

"Do not flirt with my sister, Theo," Fitz said sharply.

"I was only saying hello!" Brougham looked injured, and dramatically pressed a hand to his heart. This was unlike George, and Georgiana welcomed that change. Consciously, she knew he was a different person, but she still felt apprehensive in the presence of the dominating personality of Theodore Brougham.

"Theo, anything you say that is not hostile is flirting. Trust me." Fitz rolled his eyes affectionately.

"I am thoroughly chastened, Darcy!" Brougham flashed Fitz a grin. "How are you coming along? Have you confessed to little Lizzy yet, or are you still talking yourself out of it now that you are shot?"

At this, Georgiana laughed. "Brother _did_ eventually tell her, Mr. Brougham. It took a slip of her tongue to do it, however."

Brougham looked pleasantly surprised. "You really did it! You really, truly, irrevocably did it!" He shot Georgiana a wink. "And have I Miss Darcy to thank for this unexpectedly pleasant event? Perhaps I had rather thank Miss Elizabeth's talkativeness instead. Darcy – my sincere apologies for this, but I have literally been waiting since university for you to pick up your courage and say it!"

"I have been waiting nearly as long, sir," Georgiana chimed in. "I like refreshing, and everything here in Hertfordshire might as well be another world; it is all so different."

The older man nodded. "I've a presentiment you will enjoy travelling, Miss Darcy. It is like that for every new place you visit – and yet there is something about it that is so dearly familiar. That is one of the things I love about life and mankind in general."

That was one thing George had never said about himself. Georgiana relaxed and tried to wipe the slate clean. She had to judge Mr. Theodore Brougham independently of his likeness to George Wickham. And she would do it now.

Her brother had moved on to the business end of the conversation. "– And what of George?" he was asking.

Brougham instantly looked troubled. "He was… confusing, to say the least."

"Whatever do you mean, Dy?"

"I mean that he was far more contrite than I ever expected – and Darcy, that was the thing. He was _genuinely_ sorry that you almost died, never mind the fact that he almost died himself."

Georgiana was glad, glad that Wickham redeemed himself by feeling sorry for what he had done to Fitzwilliam, but Fitzwilliam himself looked stunned. "How certain are you, Dy? He is a very good liar, and you know what he did." He flicked a glance at his sister, who scowled, a bit insulted.

Brougham rolled his golden eyes almost lazily. "I know what I am talking about, Fitz, and he was definitely sorry. He told me to bring you this – and I promise it has no poison or harmful chemicals of any sort." He stepped forward and gave Fitz a small brown package.

Fitz unwrapped it and sucked in a sharp breath. Georgiana ducked around him to see what it was, hoping it was nothing with bad memories.

It was an ordinary pebble, such as might be picked up by young boys on a lark.

"What is that, Fitz?" Georgiana inquired. Her brother turned the stone over and revealed the initials and the date below that, scratched into the greyish-blue stone: _F. D., 16 April 1797._

The letters and numbers were clearly made with a pocket-knife or two, such as schoolboys at the age of thirteen might carry. Even though the date held no special connotations for Georgiana, she could easily identify the two initials above it: Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Fitzwilliam explained, "This was soon after I met Elizabeth, and George – George and I… we engraved our initials and the date on a stone – his is greenish-grey. We exchanged stones, and we carried them around everywhere… it was our own kind of memento. We meant it as a reminder: ' _I am your brother, no matter where we go and what we do._ ' I thought he had thrown his away long ago…"

He dove for his drawer and brought out a satchel that contained his journal and some of his smaller presents from Elizabeth. Digging around, he brought out a stone with a green tint bearing the marks: _G.W., 16 April 1797_.

"I had no idea he still had this." He returned the greenish stone to his satchel and tossed the other at Theo. "Here, take that back to George. That settles it." His eyes took on a flinty look. "I shall talk to George myself – as soon as both of us are recovered enough to do so."

" _No!_ "

* * *

The piercing cry made both men in the room turn to the girl, who had suddenly gone pale and clutched her brother's arm.

"Georgiana, forgive me, but I _must!_ "

"You cannot, Fitzwilliam! I will not let you." Her fingers scratched at his arm as though never to let him go. She would not let him face his death again! She who had exposed him to death would never do it again. "He did this to you, Brother! You cannot seriously be contemplating going to talk to him."

"If it helps, Miss Darcy, which I very much doubt," Brougham piped up; "I shall accompany him closely. I shall not let him out of my sight, especially not with Wickham."

Georgiana was a little taken aback when the jovial gleam to his golden eyes vanished, leaving a spark of determination she had come to know in Fitzwilliam and, more recently, Lizzy and herself. He was beyond joking now; both Darcys felt his sincerity as much as his stubbornness. While Fitz told Theo he was not broken glass and did not need to be guarded like a precious heirloom, Georgiana cocked her head slightly and studied Brougham.

Any passing resemblance he had to George was gone. His features were regular, though he had a patch of his left eyebrow where no hair had regrown, because of a scar that cut through it. George's eyes were amber, like sap that entrapped and immobilised. Brougham's eyes were gold that glittered inexorably.

Brougham took his leave and departed with some letters and receipts that would resolve the unofficial case between Darcy and Wickham, and Georgiana was left to stare quizzically at her brother, whose good mood had disappeared.

Pressing a quick kiss to her brother's cheek and hugging him, Georgiana laid her brother down as he had done for her when she was a little girl, lying down on the near side of the bed and pressing her back to his.

She began to sing. Technically, of course, she knew that lying down was not a very good position for good singing, but she wanted comfort for her brother, not an exemplary performance. Perhaps another time.

Her brother. Fitzwilliam. Fitz. Fizzy.

He had been much closer to their father than she had been, and was much more devastated when he died, but as for eleven-year-old Georgiana, she had lost a friend and nothing more. George Darcy had all but foregone any attempts at connecting with the child who in looks had so resembled Lady Anne Darcy. His son had apparently been enough for him, and so he left his daughter in the charge of her sibling and nanny.

Now, little Georgie thought this was rather unfair, as it was not exactly her fault, but there was Fitzy, who told her stories and laughed with her and sang to her and taught her how to play. He was all she needed.

As she grew, she enjoyed the fun she had with Father, but they were never an essential part of her life. Her life came to mean music, Pemberley, stories and colours… and Fitzwilliam.

At eleven, she understood that Fitz needed space and a good cry, and that was about it. Of course, as a lonely little girl, she mourned for the loss of George Darcy's sorrow-tinged smiles and his twinkling eyes, but he was no more than a friend to her. Not a _dear_ friend, and certainly not a father.

She had all the father, mother, and brother she needed in Fitzwilliam, and she poured all the adoration an intensely lonely girl's heart can give into her bond with the best brother in history.

She saw it every day since his recovery from the illness that almost took his life in the year 1807, in fact since that dreadful summer that year when he came home with head held high… and a gaping hole torn in his heart. Every day, his smile grew just that bit dimmer, his eyes died just that bit more.

Then their cousins came, and just a little bit of him came back, but even then he still kept forcing himself to wake, every morning. Georgiana grew even more depressed because her Fitzwilliam was dying a little every day and she could do nothing to stop him. It all came to a head that awful day when Richard screamed for their help one silent summer day.

She had run upstairs, only to find Richard rapidly winding some cloth around William's left wrist, and red, red, red everywhere…

William died too much that day. He almost died forever.

This year, she came to Netherfield expecting to see a grey, forlorn brother, but instead she was greeted with a teasing, smirking, lively Fitzwilliam. Somehow, all of his life came flooding back, splendid and indomitable.

Such was one of the reasons Georgiana loved Lizzy so much on sight.

One look at the bright brunette and Georgiana knew it was her doing that Fitzwilliam, though in body injured and sulky, still had any will to live…

She kept singing, hoping that the familiar tune would bring from comfort to her as well as to her dearest beloved brother. There were no two ways about it: Georgiana loved Fitzwilliam more than anything, and would do anything to ascertain his wellbeing (heart, body, and soul).

Now, the young girl had hope that someday, someday soon, the light in his eyes would shine bold and bright, instead of dimming a little each day.


	16. Of Wounds and Wonder

**Hello wolflings!**

 **So this is going to be a rather lengthy chapter, but William is getting better, both physically and mentally, and he's climbing out of that pit we saw him in. I'll need to update some other MTMDF related fics, mind, so just hold on tight.**

 **I will _not_ be reposting TBAD until the end of this version of MTMDF, which might not be for some months yet, and I'm sorry, but I got ahead of myself last time. Most of the story arcs from TBAD and TFP (like The Paths Not Traveled) have unfortunately been wiped completely from my hard drive, so no continuations there. We can only hope I get better ideas.**

 **EDIT: As a guest review pointed out, the beginning relationship was influenced by another story on here, part of DarcyFan1's trilogy of P &P stories. I'm really sorry, I thought I stated it, but apparently I didn't, so here it is:**

 **Yes, I was influenced by Lord Paisley and Georgiana's romance in _To Love and Cherish_ (BTW, if you haven't read it, check it out, seriously. Man I love Julian).**

 **No, it's not an echo. I'll explain.**

 **In _To Love and Cherish_ , it's been two years. Georgiana has learned to distance herself from what happened when she was fifteen. This Georgiana has NOT. The humiliation and guilt is still fresh and raw, and she needs to heal from it still. In addition, Theodore is a different man from Lord Paisley. On the surface they appear the same, but they're not really. Theodore loves to travel, and he never had the loving sisters Julian has in DarcyFan1's story. Still, I love TLAC, so definitely check it out. **

**Fair warning though, it's the second part of a canon-divergent trilogy, so... be prepared.**

 **Another warning: Theodore's second and last name are taken from the brilliant Pamela Aidan's trilogy, _Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman_. There, as here, Brougham is Darcy's best uni friend. **

**Now onto the story, and enjoy this time!**

 **~Alex**

* * *

William never laboured under the delusion that he would be able to actively take part in Christmas celebrations that year, not that he thought he was missing much. Elizabeth, however, appeared to be rather saddened at this, seeing as this was his first – and likely only – Christmas at Netherfield, and she had been hoping he would be well enough to join them.

Sadly his leg was not yet strong enough to attempt putting much weight on it, and managing the stairs with it was unthinkable. However, William did begin trying harder to manage his temper. He had never liked his lack of control over it, and he particularly hated it now that those he loved bore the burden.

But he was confined to a room when he was used to walking about as he pleased, and William would be the first to admit he had never truly grown up. Perhaps it had something to do with the responsibility he had been given and how he dealt with it; perhaps he had grown up too soon on the one side and not at all on the other.

He supposed that that was the reason for… what happened after. When you balance a board on top of two sticks and the sticks are meant to grow together, of course the board will fall if one stick grows too fast.

That was probably what happened. William had no idea, and certainly Charles did not.

William knew he had a problem and what its result was, but he did not know how to fix it. That problem had been part of him for nearly seven years, and now that he got around to paying attention to it, it rankled like a shaft when he tried to pull it out.

His scars were still a rather sore matter with him. They were stupid mistakes, the mistakes of a boy who thought he was left alone and tried to use pain against pain like a silly little idiot. It was like a Roman's son brandishing his father's gladius at a cockroach. Well, no more! He would grow up – or try. Elizabeth had grown up long ago, and he needed to keep up with her.

Maybe one day his scars would stop shining grey and red.

One day, he confided this to Elizabeth, who said, "Do not expect too much of yourself, William. Yours is a noble notion, but you set your own pace. Sometimes you drag behind and you will blame yourself – my advice is, do not. Responsibility is all well and good, but when you start feeling guilty about it, you will slow yourself down."

William gave her a lopsided smile. "I am a right mess, am I not?"

Elizabeth regarded him with a contemplative stare. "I do not see you as such. You might be a mess, but you are only William to me, and to me you are beautiful."

Electric blue. Rose. "I am?"

"I have no idea if you noticed, but you are very handsome in looks," Elizabeth laughed. "However, that is not what I meant. Do you remember in the park, when I told you about my parents' situation and how bleak the world seemed to me when I looked at it? You told me that without light, darkness would not exist."

William thought about it. "I think you have forgotten: that William is dead."

"He is you."

"I left him behind when this started." He tapped his arm. "I think… I think I am a different man, now."

"It made you more understanding, I think." Elizabeth seemed to be trying to look for something in him. "Georgiana told me much about your performance as master of Pemberley. I think that if you consider them to be still suffering under neglect, you would be very much mistaken."

"I belong to the land as much as it belongs to me," he stated. "Pemberley is as much my master as I am master of Pemberley. It was the least I could do."

"Maybe, but you have no right to be so hard on yourself about it," she said firmly.

He needed time to think, time to reconcile the golden days of the park to the bleeding days that led to the scars that itched under his sleeve. Elizabeth undid his cuff and pulled down his sleeve, almost spooking him when her fingertips traced each scar carefully, slowly. His arm prickled with sensation as she reached a knot of tissue where scar after scar had overlapped.

It seemed almost wrong, to have the gold touch the grey, but under her touch the dull grey gained a little lustre until they shone silver and scarlet. To have two such dissonant parts of his life meet was jarring, but William did not want to pull away.

And a sharp blossoming of scarlet from his left wrist reminded him that there was yet another wound to be healed. "There is one more," he whispered, almost afraid to destroy the magical silence of his healing. He gave her his other wrist, almost afraid to show her just how low he had stooped, just how far he had fallen. The boy could not even summon the courage to undo the cuff himself.

Elizabeth gently pulled back the cuff, and let out no sound of surprise, only traced the ugly pink scar where it rose from his skin. The cut had been deep, very deep; so deep that Richard had barely been on time to save him from death merely twenty minutes after the cut had been made.

Where had that strength come from?

"Do you know what that means?"

She rested her fingers where the vein throbbed, where the deepest part of the wound had been. If he closed his eyes he could just picture how the penknife looked against the blood – silver and blue and scarlet. How did it feel? It should have been painful… but every time he tried to recall some sort of sensation, the memory slipped away from him.

"I do have a theory," Elizabeth confessed, startling William out of his haze; "but I would wish for a definite answer, from you. What happened here?"

It was impossible to think about those dark, grey-drenched days when her touch ghosted over the reminder. The contact tickled very distractingly, and for a moment William wished to abandon himself to the sunlight and the green and gold of Elizabeth's smile, instead of remembering black and red and grey.

She asked, though, and he was not one to deny her such a reasonable request. "I… I find it difficult to think of those days with any measure of composure," he admitted. "That scar in particular is the reminder of a day I snapped under my perceived burden; the day I – I…" God help him, he was unable to say the words!

"Faith, William, was it so terrible?" Her query was gentle, concerned.

"I thought it so," he mumbled. "It was an ordinary day for every other person there, I suppose. At least, it was ordinary until Richard came, for whatever reason, and found me bleeding to death." There! Her mind should be able to piece it together from there.

"So I _am_ correct, then." There was no measure of joy in her voice at that. "You _did_ try to kill yourself."

The finality of that statement made him shiver. Suddenly sunlight was firelight and moonlight, and the scar was a fresh wound bleeding freely. Did it hurt? William honestly could not recall any pain, only red (and blue and silver) as he stared Death in the face.

Something cool, warm – never mind – sparked electric blue and green and gold, and he looked at his wrist in dull astonishment. The scarlet was fading away, and the grey was turning to silver.

How? William looked askance at Elizabeth, who would not meet his eyes. What had she done? The pressure on his scar – something soft – something cool, warm… The embarrassed tint on her ears as she stared at nothing in particular told him exactly what she had done. She had kissed the scar.

Softly, he took her hand from his wrist and pressed his own lips to the back, and met her startled eyes as they jumped up from the bedspread.

Somehow they both knew this kind of contact needed no words. William closed his eyes and let the rose and gold do its work. The scarlet would never truly be gone, but it would be a shadow flickering at the edge of his vision, no longer spots dancing in the middle to make him dizzy. As he lay back and intertwined his fingers with hers, he realised something.

He had needed this, long ago. Perhaps some would call him manipulative, after seeing how he wavered from affectionate to furious and through everything in between, but in a certain kind of maturity he was no more than an adolescent boy. His actions were not born out of nefarious intent, but instead out of a misguided attempt to gain him the affection and attention he felt the lack of so keenly.

That justified his actions, but did not make them right. William resolved, silently, to act as a man of his age should, and remember that he was loved, he was fine, and he was as safe as he needed to be.

This sounded rather like what he told Georgiana after – Ramsgate, when she rode with him in a morass of muddy brown and scarlet. What did it say that his fifteen-year-old sister was more mature than he? He shook the thought away and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. There would be time for that sort of thing later.

When he did finally speak, it was with his eyes still closed. "Thank you. It was no fault of yours... only remember that."

She kissed his cheek in answer, and it was understood. William needed time to grow, and heal, and she needed time to learn, but one thing they knew would not change was that they loved each other.

On its own, love would not be enough, but love can inspire humans to do superhuman things, and if it meant, in the end, that they would be free to love as equals, William and Elizabeth were most willing to brave the inferno.

* * *

Theodore chose to stay at Meryton for Christmas, feeling that Christmas at Westmarch could go on very well without him. He made arrangements with his steward for the holidays, especially to send for him if any emergencies occurred.

As it was he spent very little time in Meryton, spending it instead in company of his friend at Netherfield. What time was not spent with Darcy was spent with Bingley and Darcy's sister. Thankfully Bingley's sisters and brother-in-law had decided to off to London for the season, which meant that Theodore was spared the inconvenience of having to avoid them.

Theodore was not blind. He knew about his friend's suicide attempt, and what had restored his spirit to its former brightness. However, he knew very little about the latter's persona in general, because though he knew it was little Lizzy from the park, he had never met her.

December 23rd found him ascending the stairs to Darcy's room at roughly half past eleven in the morning. Theodore was admittedly not paying much attention to the empty halls, humming and swinging his walking stick leisurely.

He bumped into something hard – a book, perhaps – and heard a yelp of surprise. Registering that something had fallen, he caught it – a book, as he had thought – and looked up to see wide brown eyes framed by tumbling brunette locks. "I am so sorry!" the young lady cried. "I was reading the book, I had no idea you were there." She gave a wry smile. "When I am engrossed in a book, I am ignorant of my surroundings."

Theodore bowed with a smile and held out the book. "My apologies as well, miss," said he; "for I was also paying very little attention to my surroundings. I'm afraid I assumed the corridor to be empty."

She took the book back. "I suppose we had better introduce ourselves, as there is no mutual friend who can do so." With a curtsy, she began, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Longbourn. I am a neighbour of the Bingleys."

Theodore bowed again. "Mr. Theodore Brougham, of Westmarch. I am… I guess you could describe me as 'a friend of a friend'," he laughed. "I do like Bingley, but he is not who I came to see."

"Likewise, sir," said Miss Bennet.

That name rang a bell, though. However, her being a lady meant that she either had an understanding with one of the two gentlemen or was a friend of Miss Darcy's. Theodore considered the young brunette carefully; she was of medium height, and was quite pretty. Not his type, of course, but he had been around Darcy enough to know that this girl was his friend's type.

Wait!

The puzzle pieces fell into place. An Elizabeth of Hertfordshire who was exactly Darcy's kind of girl – this was little Lizzy!

It was only when Miss Elizabeth arched an eyebrow at him that he realised that he had said the last out loud. "Ah – my apologies, again," he mumbled, hastily, inwardly cursing himself (Theodore Brougham did not _mumble!_ ). "Oh! You're here to see Darcy, are you not?"

Miss Elizabeth looked shocked, and then flushed to the tips of her ears. "Well – that is not untrue," she replied. "I assume you are as well? Oh – you are Theo! Oh Lord, I feel so silly!"

This situation was so particularly absurd that the pair shared a laugh over it, before remembering why they were here. Theodore held the door for Miss Elizabeth, saying dramatically, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sir!"

"Theo! Well, this is a pleasant surprise," Darcy exclaimed. "Er – I take it you two have introduced yourselves?"

"That we have –" Miss Elizabeth cut herself off abruptly, and Theodore gleaned the reason.

"There is no need to stand on ceremony for me, Miss Elizabeth," said the master of Westmarch. "You may call him whatever you like; God knows he has certainly pined after you enough in my presence for me to allow it."

" _Theo_ dore!" Darcy protested. "I did not pine after her!"

Theodore crossed his arms and looked at his friend with amused golden eyes. Darcy huffed and conceded his defeat, while Miss Elizabeth laughed and bade Theodore call her Miss Lizzy, as the four syllables of her name were much too long to pronounce.

"I guess it is Mr. Theo for you, then, Miss Lizzy – or would it be Mr. Dy?"

"Dy?"

"His second name is Dyfed," Darcy explained. "He sometimes likes to be called Dy, and has a much more sociable soul than I do. As a result, he flirts with ladies he likes – most harmlessly, I assure you."

Theodore sighed in relief. At least Darcy did not compliment him; he hated them, as they made him feel like a deer being stared at. In the room with the pair of them, however, made Theodore squirm a little as they discussed the book Miss Lizzy had brought in. He felt rather like – well, there was no actual way to describe feeling like this. Of course they were adorable – as those so in love are wont to be – but Theodore, while he was happy for them, was an outsider in such intimacy.

He knew Darcy to be a gentleman, and from what his friend had told him, he knew Miss Elizabeth to be a lady, so he had no fear of quietly slipping out, leaving the door open behind him.

 _Lucky man_ , he thought sourly. Darcy could seal himself off and be his own antisocial self; he had the reputation for that sort of thing. All and sundry excused his aloofness and his shyness because he had always been so, even as a boy, while Theo of Westmarch had always been 'a beaming, agreeable sort of boy'. In fact, most had wondered in their boyhood why the four – Darcy, 'Colonel' Fitzwilliam (of course, now he had the real title, but it had been their favourite nickname for the young Richard), Theodore, and Wickham – had ever even bothered with each other, as their temperaments were so different.

However, since he was always known as an amiable sort, Theodore was never left alone. God have mercy on him, sometimes he wanted to be able to brandish his golden eyes of fire at them and tell them to please _be quiet, thank you_ without any lasting consequences. Alas, he was the amiable one, the friendly one.

He was not allowed to.

A smile curved his lips as he imagined what sort of gossip was generated by his absence in Town this season. Unlike Darcy, he loved London – that bustling cesspool where there was so much to do – but sometimes it got to be too much even for him, and he was glad to have a reason to escape it this year.

Music caught his ear, and he traced the sound.

Theodore had never been able to resist music, especially not music played as heavenly as this. Darcy had always said the sensitive part of his soul showed through his appreciation of – and talent for – music. Like Darcy, Theodore had a music room in his country manor. _Un_ like Darcy… it was not for his sister.

Not only was Theodore an only child (now), but he was also a musical man. The music room had in fact been made over by his father for his mother, but as he grew older, Theodore wandered more and more into that music room, despite the fact that music was more popularly the lady's department. Theodore loved music; it was one of his modes of expression.

He followed the music into the drawing room, the door of which was open. He slipped inside to find Charles Bingley sitting at one end doing nothing in particular, and Georgiana Darcy at the other end playing the pianoforte. He greeted them, which caused Miss Darcy to startle, squeak, and stop playing, and Bingley to greet him back with a sort of lazy sharpness he had hereto not seen.

"Forgive me," said Miss Darcy softly. "I know it is passing uncivil, but you must excuse me for a minute." With that, she scampered out of the room, with the gentlemen's surprised gazes fixed on where she had sat.

"What on earth has possessed her?" Bingley muttered, with all the concern of an older brother. "I know she hates to play for those outside of family, or those she is not intimately acquainted with, but she had no problem with me!"

Theodore's jaw set unpleasantly. He had an idea.

* * *

"William," Elizabeth said suddenly. "It is two days to Christmas, and my mother's brother and his family have settled in for the holidays. Are you certain we could not all visit?"

William laughed. "That's ridiculous! No, Elizabeth, it is not for me to disrupt your celebrations. Only think of me when you sit and laugh together, and I shall be content. Besides, Georgiana, Theo, and Charles are here. I shall want for no company but yours, and that is enough."

"You must promise me to return as soon as you can and visit," she entreated him. "I know you will like Papa, and I think you have already met my uncle…"

"Not long enough for an introduction," he replied sourly. "That was… you know." She did. "I shall have to return to Pemberley as soon as I am recovered enough for the journey, sometime in mid-February, I would imagine. However, allowing for my delayed business and some spring affairs. I should be able to come to Hertfordshire around May – just in time for your birthday!"

He and Elizabeth liked to celebrate birthdays, though it was usually not a big affair for people in general. Well… more like used to like celebrating birthdays, but one thing they always knew, in the days when William was an adolescent who seemed not to know what to do with his limbs, on the 7th of April and the 21st of May, was that they would wake up to a letter from their dearest friend in the world.

There was an awkward pause as Elizabeth wondered how they could return to such an intimate history as that, with the heavy issue of their love hanging between them. Could they still do all they had done then?

Fortunately William seemed to remember how her mind worked, and answered the silent question: "Of course we can; I suppose the only difference is that it will mean slightly more." Since when had he had those dimples? Had he looked this way at the Quarrel?

She honestly could not remember what he looked like, then. She had only seen him once a year, and even then he had avoided her eyes. His face had not had time to imprint itself upon her memory as adolescent William's had. And his voice! His voice was now a smooth tone that rang delightfully in her ears, unlike the squeaks and cracks he had sported well into his sixteenth year and the uncertain wavering that stuttered and stammered until he was twenty.

"Have I done something good?" The very voice she was musing on inside her head interrupted those thoughts. "You have the dreamiest look, my Elizabeth. I wish I had my paints; your eyes look simply lovely."

She laughed, feeling her ears burn at the compliment, though she was fairly sure no blush rose in her cheeks – she had never been one to blush at compliments. "Only your voice, William. It never used to sound like that."

"I like it much better these days," he remarked. "…Do not tell me you still remember when it squeaked!"

"I shall not," Elizabeth cried teasingly. "Although I very much _do_ recall how it sounded."

William groaned. "And I sing so well now! Georgiana actually allows me to sing to her accompaniment sometimes," he informed her.

"You never used to sing," she recalled.

"That was because my voice was terrible!" he huffed, giving her a lopsided smile that echoed Mr. Bro – Mr. Theo's, with only one of the dimples showing. "Next Christmas, Elizabeth, I will sing and you will play… do you still practice?"

The William of long ago had given her – and along with her, her sister Mary – the opportunity to learn beyond what their mother could teach them. Frances Bennet was certainly no goose at the pianoforte, but she was not very given to teaching impatient little girls who squirmed in their seats. William had recommended one of his cousin's old masters, who had turned out to be quite a godsend for little Lizzy and Mary.

Papa had been rather reluctant, but after the first few lessons he was more amenable to the idea, and even wrote to William to express his thanks. Elizabeth, of course, was grateful, as she was more proficient than she could have trained to be on her own. Mary, too, sent her gratitude, once she was old enough to understand. This favour was what truly cemented the young William Darcy as a friend of Elizabeth's in Papa's mind.

"Of course I do," she answered. "Mary and I have been teaching Kitty, though Lydia says she would rather dance. I do think she has a penchant for drawing, though."

"I do not know if I can handle your youngest sister, Lizzy," William laughed.

" _You_ would not be the one to teach her, you silly man!" Elizabeth cried, smacking him. He grinned and sat up. He reached for his sketchbook and his pencil, scratching furiously away at a clean page.

While she watched him drawing (she had not brought her own things), her mind drifted to the gift she would give William for his birthday. His Christmas present was certain, but his birthday gift was still being conceptualised.

It would need a lot of ideas. Her working idea was a sketch of William as he was then and as he was now, a portrait surrounded by pictures and themes that showed off his personality both as he had been and as he was. It would be a complicated work, but it would be something to do in the coming months between studying with Papa, writing letters, and teaching Kitty and hopefully Lydia.

Elizabeth, with nothing else to do, watched him curiously. Whenever she tried peeking at what he was drawing he edged away, so instead she watched his face. Occasionally he would glance at her from under his eyelashes, but otherwise he concentrated intensely on his drawing.

* * *

And finally, he was done.

Elizabeth had nearly fallen asleep in the process, but she had merely laid her arms on the bed and her head on her arms and watched as his fingers darkened with graphite. A tap on the shoulder brought her back out of her daze, and William laid his drawing tools aside as he turned the sketchbook towards her.

It was a drawing of… people. People in coats and hats and dresses, with hair tossed in the light breeze shown in the drawing.

The men and women seemed to be somewhat arranged around a young man in the centre, and on either side Elizabeth could recognise faces and hairstyles. Mr. Charles' smile peeked out from under his hat, while beside his counterpart on the other side stood Mr. Theo, with his ever-present cane and what looked to be a plum coat. She also recognised Colonel Fitzwilliam, Georgiana, and Jane, while there were two men and two women she could not place, two of whom bore a resemblance to William.

"These are my twin cousins, Alex and Lily," William said, pointing to a man to the left side of the drawing and his counterpart on the right side. Both sported identical grins and the same cheeky raised eyebrow that William sometimes used. The lady beside Alex was 'his wife, Amelia. Believe me, that lady is even more ginger than Charles and is far fierier!' The man beside Lily held a small boy by the hand. "Her husband and son, Ernest and Wilt."

"The boy's name is Wilt?"

He shot her a Look. "I was going to explain."

"My apologies. Please continue, my dear sir." Elizabeth could not resist smiling. As it turned out, neither could William, who said, "Actually, his name is chosen partially in honour of me and in honour of Ernest's father. I have no idea why I became part of that equation, but that boy you are looking at is William Walter Cecil."

"How does that nickname work?"

William shrugged. "I have no idea."

Elizabeth turned back to the drawing. Another young lady stood next to Richard Fitzwilliam, with hair so dark smudges of graphite showed around the shading. Her proud features were those of a lady of high birth. "My cousin, Anne de Bourgh." He rolled his eyes. "She and Richard have been in love with each other for ages. I am only waiting for the announcement."

She laughed.

* * *

William saw it; the second her eyes registered the young man at the centre. The other characters blurred into a grey haze around his figure, and he was the only one looking straight out of the picture and right at the viewer. And he was not laughing.

Though he would be getting there; a smile hovered around his lips (a shy smile, as though it were afraid of being noticed. A small smile, as though curling up in a corner out of the way. A brave smile, as though realising that the darkness coiled around his heart had snapped.)

He was holding on, hands curled tightly around those of Georgiana on his left and of the figure on his right. William hoped Elizabeth recognised that figure.

One more glance told him that she did. She had noticed how that figure laughed, how her hair was shaded so as to come across as brown. She had noticed how that figure's fingers rested protectively over his scars, and she understood.

With that realisation – she understood – William felt something inside his chest snap with an almost audible sound. And the pressure on his shoulders lifted a little, only a little.

Scarlet (cerulean and silver).

Black (rose and gold).

Charcoal grey (shining grey – silver).

Clay yellow (royal blue and green).

 _Snap_.

Fog and chains and stones. Doors shutting in his face. Lying in bed all day and all night trying to shut out the faded colours that would never leave him alone. George Darcy and the man he could have been, the father he could have been, lost in the one way his aching son would never reach him. Anne Darcy, expiring peacefully with her husband by her side, while her son waited in his room, seeing scarlet and grey and clay yellow.

 _Snap_.

A hard knot of hate and doubt and anger and sadness was lodged, deep in his heart, the day after his mother died. They all thought his sister would die as well, she was such a sickly little thing. But he knew she would not, and he would creep into the nursery at night and sing to her (tell her that somebody was waiting for her to wake up and live).

That knot got more and more tangled the more confused and angry and pessimistic the young boy became. It burned an ugly blood-scarlet as it wrenched at all the spirit he had left.

And it froze that Christmas Eve in 1807 when a man so young at heart fell asleep in the snow and chose not to care if he ever awoke (when a little girl felt the weight of the world on her shoulders as she lay awake wondering if her Fitzwilliam would go the path of their parents).

No more.

 ** _No more_**.

The weight on his shoulders lifted just that little, but that allowed him to look back, at how far he had come. He had fought through all of it, even though he had never expected to survive even losing his mother, let alone what followed. And that…

That was wonderful.

William raised his head and his mind whirled with all the colour. He could not even give them names, because they caught him up like a friendly whirlwind and showed him the world in vivid, brilliant colours.

That was wonderful!

And as he blinked, and looked towards Elizabeth, who had fought so many of his battles with him, once more, four all-consuming colours enveloped him in the best feeling in the world.

(Green and gold and blue and silver.)

The last colour to come was that feeling, that feeling that while everything might not be alright, he had a part in making it so. A colour that told him of the bond between Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, told him of forever. So William took it and he named it: rose gold.

He let out a laugh. _This is wonderful!_

William threaded his fingers through Elizabeth's, and let the colours wash through him. _**This is wonderful.**_


	17. Of Christmas and (Theodore's) Character

**Hello, wolflings. This is probably my worst chapter ever. I'm really sorry. I shoe-horned in a little bit of character development for Theo, and while the info-dump about him from Will isn't unnecessary, I have a feeling that I'll look back at this in a year and cringe in regret.**

 **That said, I'm sorry for taking such a long time to upload! I wasn't sure how to conclude after such a metaphorical dump that was Chapter 16. It took a lot out of me - not necessarily because it was sad, but it was because that tide of emotions that swept over William came over me too, and I was catatonic for a few minutes.**

 **Thanks for waiting, and enjoy this tidbit from Georgiana's point of view, mostly!**

Georgiana dreaded Christmas Day.

Not on usual holidays, when Fitz would wake her up with a song (which he had done since his voice settled properly) and a smile. Not when there was no George Wickham to think about. She liked Christmas Day, and she looked forward to Christmas at Netherfield because Fitzwilliam was healing at last, and because Lizzy and Mr. Charles were so obviously good for him. She was recovering as well, from that summer, however slowly.

At least, she _had_ looked forward to it, until Mr. Theodore Brougham.

When she heard that he would be staying until the New Year, her heart sank. She had always dreaded having to deal with the dominating gentleman; not because he intentionally put himself forward, but because his charisma usually put him at the forefront of any group. As such, his presence in any room both intimidated and irritated her. He was just so… defiant of her standards for gentlemen, as well as jarring for her to associate with in any case.

She knew it was no fault of his, and tried to avoid him for fear of snapping and saying something rude.

In addition, Georgiana was sharply reminded of George whenever she looked at him. Consciously, of course, she knew he had little in common with George, but instinctual alarm bells rang whenever he flashed her a smirk or stared at her with those golden eyes.

And oh, how he teased! Whenever they met, he would smirk at her and keep baiting until she knew not where to look and said something silly. Then he would laugh, and fix his golden-eyed gaze on her for an instant, and be on his way. Her pride, just beginning to blossom, prickled hatefully at his barbs. Worst of all, he seemed to think it all good fun!

All in all, Mr. Theodore Brougham was a disturbing presence. It mattered not what Georgiana _knew_ about him, he always managed to throw her off-balance. Everything she could see of him was wrong to her, and she hated it.

God, why did he have to be her brother's best friend, _and_ the son of old friends of her parents'? At least if he had not been, she, not being out, would not have to interact with him so much!

Still, Georgiana could handle being in his company for a few hours every day, though she wished she had Lizzy's boldness when Brougham's wit reduced her to a frustrated, simmering mess. She went about her day as though he did not exist, which was probably the best course of action, as even the thought of him annoyed her.

Georgiana wandered out of her room and around the floor, warmly dressed as the morning was still young, thinking of how she could have replied differently, with a little of Lizzy's boldness. She could only try.

Was that the pianoforte?

The sound drifted out of the drawing room, surely enough, but Georgiana was confused. Aside from her, there were no ladies who resided in the house.

She descended cautiously, and tried the drawing room door. Strangely for the day before Christmas, it was locked. However, Mr. Charles' celebration did not start until evening, so she supposed it was not quite so strange. It was already quarter-past eleven in the morning, so perhaps whoever it was hoped not to be heard?

The song was something she had never heard before, but it was beautiful, simple, and elegant. The melody tinkled as brightly as the soft winter sunlight, and the harmony floated in the background like the woods near Pemberley at home. Georgiana was entranced.

The song stopped, and she heard somebody inside swear. Somebody who was definitely male.

This confused the young girl. The pianoforte was considered mainly a female's instrument, so can one wonder at the conclusion poor Georgiana's mind hesitated to draw? She tried to back away from the door, but before she could get completely out of the way, it burst open, and Mr. Theodore Brougham tumbled out.

He almost bowled her over in trying to rush back upstairs, but the golden-haired girl tried to see around him. "Miss Darcy," he cried, with very apparent surprise. "I – oh no – you heard me playing – Lord –"

This halted Georgiana in her tracks. "That was _you_?"

Mr. Brougham bit his lip, blushing. "Well – er – well – yes, that was me," said he at last. "I am well aware the pianoforte is usually played by ladies such as yourself, but… I missed it, and I could not resist. I tried not to be heard, I promise!"

He was stammering! In all the time she had known either him or George, the Darcy girl had never heard either of them stammer. She had never seen George blush either, and yet here the other stood, with colour high on his cheeks at being discovered. Though he could not know this, this rather ungentlemanly bashfulness reassured Georgiana around Mr. Brougham more than anything else could have.

"Far be it from me to be an impediment to such a song, Mr. Brougham." The words had barely left her mouth before Georgiana realised that she had replied with more equanimity than ever before. Still, the truth in her words rang out. Though she disliked him, she could not say he played badly.

He grew slightly less embarrassed, judging by the normalising colour on his face. "So – so you do not mind?"

"It would be rather hypocritical of me, with the love of music I have."

"Even Darcy knows this not." The fact that there was anything left to this man yet to be known by her brother was surprising, but the fact that he was still frozen, arrested in the movement of running for the stairs, was more so.

"Would it be preferable to take a slightly more relaxed stance, Mr. Brougham? That position hardly looks comfortable." Georgiana could not resist smiling a little as he stammered out an affirmative and tried to rearrange the limbs that had served him so well. To be fair to her, it was rather comical to see such a graceful man (however much she dreaded him, she could not deny him that) fumble with limbs suddenly too long.

Once he had gained the minimum composure he appeared to require, Mr. Brougham bowed. "I would prefer my eccentric skill to remain secret, Miss Darcy."

"And why would that be? Forgive me, but it hardly seems shameful. Does not Fitzwilliam do the same?"

"Does he?"

"I have certainly heard him, sir." Georgiana was inwardly jumping up and down gleefully as she answered with the calm seriousness she had wished for before.

"Are you sure it was no echo?"

"I believe I would know, for the songs in my head do not echo against the walls of the corridors, do they?"

"I –I would guess not!" Was it truly Mr. Brougham, gentleman, who was shifting agitatedly in front of her as he absently tried to do up the buttons on his cuff before anybody noticed? He gave a nervous chuckle as he reached for a cane that was not there. "My apologies, but I really should be excused. I've no idea what is even coming out of my mouth… excuse me!"

Georgiana could only wait until he had raced up the stairs, and then she burst into laughter.

* * *

William managed to limp to the drawing room, and was there with Mr. Charles and Georgiana when Elizabeth and Jane arrived. With the two couples chaperoning each other, Georgiana began playing on the pianoforte. Flipping through the selection for something she had not played before, she came upon _Robin Adair_ and decided that perhaps she could try this one.

During the third verse, Mr. Brougham strolled in. "Please excuse my sudden entrance, I was looking for Darcy."

"Present, Brougham!" William called, laughingly. At this point Georgiana had memorised the notes well enough to be able to listen to the conversation without detracting from her performance.

"Ah! Well, here shall I stay, till Bingley tells me to leave." His eyes roamed the room, and once he realised that neither of the couples were inclined to separate, he sat himself near the pianoforte. Georgiana abruptly hit a wrong key, causing her to hiss in surprise and frustration and Mr. Brougham to look up with a raised eyebrow. She ignored him and continued playing _Robin Adair_ to the end and starting over with the intention of playing something else afterwards.

The whole time, she felt an uncomfortable sensation at the back of her neck, as though something was there and not there at the same time.

At the end of the second performance of _Robin Adair_ , Mr. Brougham addressed her: "Does my presence make you uncomfortable, Miss Darcy?"

Georgiana turned to face him. "To be very honest, I must agree, sir."

"May I ask why?" His golden eyes were shielded, and his gloved fingers plucked at the pages of the book he had been reading.

She was not quite up to answering that question, as the answer still felt too personal for her to tell it to the very person it concerned. "You may, but I cannot answer," she answered, rising from the pianoforte and sitting instead opposite him.

Mr. Brougham considered her carefully. Georgiana shifted; his scrutiny was by no means distressing, but it was rather unsettling by the way he seemed to be calculating her flaws. "Has it something to do with my likeness to George Wickham?"

How had he seen through her so easily? The girl started. "How do you know that?"

"We played together as boys," he explained. "We were an inseparable, if most unlikely, quartet: Wickham, Darcy, Colonel, and myself. Colonel, by the way, was our nickname for your cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam." His lips curled. "Very _apropos_. But I digress. I know about your family's involvement with George Wickham largely because I was your brother and your cousin's assistant in all affairs Wickham."

Panic spiked in Georgiana's chest. Then he knew about –!

He seemed to know what she was thinking. "Your brother and your cousin notified me of the incident at Ramsgate, though I did not participate in it myself." Georgiana let out a relieved sigh, though her heart still raced. So that was why he looked down on her so much! It was of no moment; she would look down on herself too.

"I don't blame you for any of that, Miss Darcy," said Mr. Brougham, softly. "I wish I could have killed him myself."

This soft, but no less vehement, declaration took Georgiana completely off guard. She stared openly at him, for once acting completely her age. He looked quieter than was his wont, calmer; his childhood with her brother was now clear.

"Your brother does not need me any longer, for companionship purposes or otherwise," Mr. Brougham added. "He needs _you_ , however, and… and if I unsettle you, I can leave. All it takes is one word from you. Yes or no, Miss Darcy: do you wish me to leave?"

Such a leading question! And yet… Georgiana did not even have to think to answer. "Yes."

Gold eyes met blue, and at last Mr. Brougham asked, "Is my company amenable for you to-morrow, on the condition that you should not see me afterwards? Answer honestly."

He would know if she lied; he always knew (like George). She swallowed and thought. "Yes."

Mr. Brougham nodded. "Very well; I know now what I must do." He quietly excused himself and returned to his book, which allowed Georgiana to return to the pianoforte with the feeling that an enormous weight had just been lifted off her shoulders.

* * *

"Plague and pestilence, Elizabeth!" William cried in frustration. "I am not an invalid any longer. I can handle myself quite well, I think."

"And I think not," Elizabeth retorted, irritated. It had only been a month, for God's sake! William should still be supported while walking, in case he tore the healing muscle again. She had seen such a case in her girlhood and knew how that had ended.

"Elizabeth, you forget that I have had to attend to a lot of injuries as master of an estate. Floods, fires, and other natural or otherwise calamities have ravaged Pemberley's grounds and Lambton and Kympton's greens, and I have handled them all, to some extent," William grumbled. "I have been injured before, and been laid up in bed before. I have managed an estate for nigh on five years; I am perfectly capable of managing _a couple of flights of stairs_." He gritted his teeth.

"Perhaps you would be, in pristine condition, but in this condition you are not," his companion argued. "Floods, fires, and other natural or not calamities are _not_ a bullet to the leg, sir, and I suggest you not treat them as if they were."

"I also suggest you not treat me as though I am made of thin glass, Lizzy. I am _perfectly fine_ ; let me walk, please!"

She would have refused, but his equivalent of her 'wheedling eyes' (which she had used as a child in order to get the young boy to do almost anything she asked) made her throw up her hands in exasperation and give in: "Fine! If you so wish to risk ripping open your leg again, I wash my hands of it." Still, Elizabeth lingered beside him as he began to descend.

Once they reached the bottom, William was taken aback to see Theodore Brougham standing by the door, the picture of indolent patience. "Theo? What are you doing here?"

"Good God, can a man not wait for his friend without his motives being suspect?" Theo laughed. "I only want to inform you that I will be leaving the day after Christmas instead of the day after New Year's. Something has come up; it is not exactly urgent, but it cannot wait till the New Year. I must go."

William flopped down on his bed inelegantly; whatever he told Elizabeth, his leg rather hurt. "We shall miss you, Theo."

"As I will you, old friend. And you, the delightful Miss Lizzy who has succeeded in stealing High and Mighty Darcy's heart."

"Ex _cuse_ me!"

"My apologies – he was far too easy a target, as he was not so much high and mighty as _mopey_."

"Brougham!" William barked, no real threat in his tone. A grin spread itself over his face as he smacked his friend's arm. Theo grinned back and sauntered out the door, his cane swinging jauntily with his plum coat's tails. William laughed fondly, at which point Elizabeth, with furrowed brow, asked, "Has this anything to do with Georgiana?"

Her companion started and turned towards her. "Why would it? True, she dislikes him, but there is no reason for this to have anything to do with her."

"I think she hates him," Elizabeth remarked astutely. "She avoids him whenever possible and laughs at him, or tries to, when it is not. She is uncomfortable in his presence, and I think that has less to do with his resemblance to Wickham than with her impression that he looks at her to find fault."

"What is _your_ impression, then?" said William, with the air of an adult humouring a child.

"Do not take that air with me, Fitzwilliam Darcy!" she exclaimed. "Still… I think Mr. Theodore looks at her to see how she is recovering. He knew everything about Wickham, you told me, and he grew up with you and the colonel. I think he learned to protect Georgie from you two."

William's expression darkened. "You do not think –"

"No! No, I do not," Elizabeth said firmly. "Do you? You have known him far longer."

"No, he does not. Of course, we have been wrong before, about Theo. He has always been the unlucky one among us four."

"What do you mean by unlucky?"

"Did he say he was an only child?"

"Yes; he told me he had no siblings. I assumed he had ever been an only child. I suppose I was wrong?"

"Indeed." William's eyes saddened, and he stopped tapping his fingers in the staccato rhythm he had maintained since his entrance. "If all the Brougham children had lived, there would be eight of them in all."

" _Eight?_ Oh no," Elizabeth gasped. "To have had seven siblings, and then to lose them all…"

"Perhaps it is time I told you the story of Theodore Brougham. You already know my story, and Richard's. I think you can handle one more, can't you?"

"Yes, I believe I can."

Both made themselves comfortable; William on the bed and Elizabeth in her chair. They ensured that the door was wide open and out of earshot, and that neither of them would cramp in the middle of the story. After all comforts were attended to, William began.

"One of his siblings died before he was even born. He was not the oldest; his brother Laurence was the heir. I knew them all: Laurence, Henrietta, Theodore, Susannah, and David. The younger two died of scarlet fever on a vacation to their aunt and uncle's while the older children were at school. Another boy, Edward, was born a year later. Another child was lost between Susannah and David.

"When Theodore was fourteen, his surviving sister was compromised by a fast young man who had played with her heart. Laurence challenged him and won, but died of his wounds; Henrietta died in childbirth, though her son lived. Edward died in a racing accident some years later."

Elizabeth flinched. "That… is truly unfortunate. Still, I suppose life goes on; he certainly seems to be enjoying it."

"He does," William said with a smile. "But his parents resented the weak child, the unsuitable heir, for being the only one left alive. He was not an objectionable young man, but he was most definitely not who they would have chosen to live. Being already grieved… Theodore did not take this comparison to his brothers and sisters well."

Elizabeth could understand a very little. Her mother was forever unfavourably comparing her to Jane or Lydia, and though Elizabeth knew it came from loving worry, it did grate on her nerves sometimes. But to be actively _resented_ for being less, in your parent's eyes, than your late siblings… that would hurt. Still…

"Are not most parents at least indifferent to their children? I cannot understand why Mr. Brougham was so wounded by it. I am only trying to understand, and I mean no attack on his character of any sort," she added quickly. "And siblings die; that is the way of things. I cannot understand how he is so affected."

"That is true enough," William replied. "I myself had one sibling who died early. To explain why he was so affected by everything: Theodore is a deeply emotional man, despite – or perhaps because – of the indifference of the world around him. He was his parents' second to least favourite child, after David. When David died, he bore the brunt of their severity. The difference was not very large, but it was profound. For a child such as Theodore, the worst thing you can do to him is to ignore him.

"Theodore got indifference; he could have dealt with dislike, with outright hatred, but he could do nothing with indifference. Though love and hate are sides of the same coin, trying to move indifference is like trying to rouse a breeze from dead air."

Elizabeth smiled wanly. "That sounds like something a wise man would say."

William sighed. "Then give it to one, for I am certainly no wise man.

"Theodore almost slipped over the edge when Richard joined the military. He considered us all brothers, and his trauma made it understandable that he was very clingy to Richard before he left for duty."

"Should we consider it a good thing that the colonel left before Mr. Brougham arrived this year?" Elizabeth asked, trying to lighten the mood. She silenced herself when William shot her a sharp look. Evidently this was a very sensitive topic even for him.

"Lizzy, Theodore woke me and George up with his nightmares for a solid _two months_ after Richard left. Can you blame me for not being able to take this lightly? This was just before the Quarrel, too…"

"You are right; forgive me."

"No, no… you did nothing knowingly. I only meant to please step carefully around this issue around the four of us, George included. He hurt for Theodore – he even laid off on his pastimes in order to better attend to him. I do not think his crime then was a lack of honour; it was an abundance of arrogant innocence. Of us, he was the only one not part of the gentry class at least. And I think that is enough storytelling," William finished, with a grin and a wink. "Tomorrow, Lizzy, we shall enjoy all that Christmas in Hertfordshire has to offer."

Elizabeth, however, had one burning question on her mind. "Then how can he smile and laugh so easily? How can he love life when all it has done to him is strike him?"

"That's the trick we learn in adversity, Elizabeth. That is how you survive in a choking household with a nervous mother and indolent father who have missed their chance at love – even with each other. That is how you endure Lydia mocking you, Mary sermonising you, and Jane sometimes refusing to listen to you. You laugh."

She cocked her head and raised a bemused eyebrow. "My life is not half as bad as all that."

"Neither is Theodore's. His relationships with his parents might have been unhealthy, and perhaps his past will always hold regrets for him, but he is happy to be alive. He loves travel and home and family, and if he ever thinks he is alone, he knows joy enough to laugh the pain away."

* * *

Christmas Day dawned with Georgiana bursting into his room and greeting him with such enthusiasm that William could not bring himself to scold her for her impropriety. "Happy Christmas, Georgiana," he cried.

"Happy Christmas, Fitzwilliam!"

"Somebody seems cheerful today," he remarked with a smirk. "Is it because 'tis Christmas, or is it because Theodore is leaving to-morrow morning?"

Georgiana froze, her cheeks a very telling red. When she recovered herself, she sniffed. "Excuse me, brother, but this is the first Christmas I have spent with you since I was eleven when you were not moping all over the place, sir!"

"Quite right." William gave her a knowing grin. She sighed. Why did all the men around her see through her like glass? Mr. Charles at least was nice enough to permit her the occasional white lie.

"Alright, mayhap you are correct."

William's brow furrowed and he swung his legs to one side of the bed. "Does Theodore truly upset you so much? Perhaps you have the wrong impression, darling."

His sister threw her head back. "He laughs at me, William, and it matters not what I know of him – he defies all definition."

Despite himself her brother's lips curled into a smile. "Then perhaps you should not try to define him."

"It is not just that he resembles George – I have long since put that fact behind me. It is that he mocks and scorns me. I have made mistakes and I know that; does he have to trumpet it to me that he knows it too?" She stopped just before saying something else, as her brother was cocking his head and looking at her with a smirk. "What?" she demanded.

"Only be careful that you do not judge too hastily, sweet," said he. "For sometimes even the second, or third, or fourth impression is all wrong; sometimes you must scratch it all out and begin again."

"Did that happen with you?" his sister asked curiously.

"It did – and it happened with the man in question. I misjudged Theodore Brougham, many more times than you can imagine, Georgiana."

Now he knew she was curious, for she sat at the foot of his bed and crossed her legs, as she used to when a little girl, to swap secrets with Fizzy and ask him about his little friend. "What changed?"

They were interrupted by a rap on the door. "Darcy?" Charles' voice called. "Are you strong enough to come to breakfast, man?"

"I certainly shall have to be, as I strongly believe that if I have to take breakfast in my room one more time I shall go mad!" William laughed. "I have had enough strength-gathering exercise, Bingley; I am fine." He reached for his cane and rose, walking to the door with only a slight limp in his step.

Looking back at Georgiana, he added, "Theodore might be reckless, impatient, sarcastic, and a bit theatrical. He may seem callous or oblivious or spiteful. I shall leave you to form your own opinion of him, as it is wrong to tell you what to think of him, but whatever you decide, sister, I hope that at least, you will have looked at all possible angles, and judged without prejudice or rancour."

Then: "Would you like to accompany me to breakfast?"


	18. Of Meetings and Mistakes

**Hello there, wolflings!**

 **I'm so, so sorry for the delay! Life was kicking my butt and my emotions decided to kick in too. I can't really excuse my absence, but I hope you enjoy this fragment and have patience with me since I'm struggling to finish the rest of this. Don't worry, it _will_ be finished. Even if it takes me a decade, ha. **

**Thanks and enjoy!**

 **~Alex**

* * *

The day had finally arrived. Damn his limp! The dark-haired gentleman hated feeling so off-balance. And in spite of what he told Elizabeth, there was a slight insecurity nestled somewhere in the back of his mind about it. He had to use a cane as something other than a walking stick. Walking sticks were fine, but they were too brittle for the use he needed, so he walked with a crutch like a lame man. It was an injury to his pride, if a small one. It was a red-violet thing niggling at the back of his mind. Botheration!

As William boosted himself up into the chaise he had borrowed from Bingley, his own brougham not being needed for such a visit, a stab of pain almost caused him to lose his balance and fall backwards.

Sometimes he felt sort of old. Old and tired. A smile crept across his face at these words. It was ridiculous. He was two years on the younger side of thirty, for God's sake. But he had just added two scars to the patchwork on his arm and when he looked back at those times, his body ached with dull carmine remembrance.

He hardly noticed the journey into Meryton, although his senses were on the alert. His mind was off somewhere else as he stumbled down in front of his destination. The young gentleman who felt not quite so young hauled himself inside and spoke to the innkeeper, before making his way to one room his insides were tearing themselves up about.

Knuckles rapped on the door before William realised they were his.

"Enter."

So he was awake.

A frisson of too-bright green, like sick sap, travelled down William's spine, and he shivered.

William hesitantly turned the knob, clenching his fist in his pocket. _I wish I had taken Elizabeth along_. Still, her presence would have exacerbated the situation, as the scratches in the stone he was holding reminded him. Cerulean eyes met amber ones as William sat down on the chair his host beckoned him to.

"Greetings, Darcy."

"Good morning, George."

Silence. George was sitting against the wall, his leg propped up on a cushion. William's aim had been a bit off, but he had done his work well. The redcoat would be off his feet for another month or so, and already it was past Twelfth Night.

"Why?" William finally asked. "This is awkward, I understand."

"Most awkward, Fitz." George smiled wanly. Was it William's perception or was he a bit pale?

"I mean, why? Why, after all of everything, would you try to contact me again?" He pointed at the stone. "What the hell is that? After the funeral, after the reading, after _Ramsgate_ , damn you, why?"

The lieutenant – former lieutenant, by now – blinked slowly. "When you challenged me."

"Yes?" William's tone was testy.

"I remembered when Richard left; specifically, the squabble we had about one month afterwards." George's amber eyes sank to the floor between William's feet. As though in shame.

William bit his lip. "I recall it. Your point?" It was not his fault if his voice trembled at the first sentence, was it? He had been pulled in all directions; Richard had departed him with the charge of taking care of the younger boys, Father was starting to lean most heavily on his help, his friendship with Elizabeth was straining, and Theodore was having nightmares almost every night.

He screeched his nail across the pebble to yank himself out of the colours of those days. _Never look back, William, never_. Think of Elizabeth – Elizabeth, who chased the rotten colours away.

"Was it ever a mystery to you how quickly I yielded?" There was no colour in George's tone but grey.

"I will admit that it did puzzle me. Going upon that, I will assume your purpose is to answer that question."

"Yes." George held himself rigidly, likely something he had learned in the militia. If nothing else, the militia did know how to pull off a good appearance. "It was only when we fired those first shots that I actually thought about it. And… Theo would have been so disappointed."

"You never cared for our disappointment before," William replied harshly. "Not even Theo's, and we all knew he was your favourite." Perhaps that was a touch too harsh, because George blinked in surprise, then shifted his shoulders slightly. Still, that statement was true. The quartet had closer pairs, and they were Theo and George, and William and Richard.

"That was because it was so perfectly hypocritical," George spat. "Tell me honestly: had you seen any gentleman, of your status or Richard's, doing what I was doing in university, would you have intervened?"

Well… no.

Then it hit him in a flash of sun. That was why George was so resistant! His regular playmates had been the sons of a gentleman and an earl, instead of the sons of villagers and townsmen. He had seen their way of life as the ideal, and had been frustrated with his end of the stick.

William wanted to laugh. After all the pondering of years to reach that very conclusion, and it was the issue of simple jealousy.

But he had yet to answer George's question, and so he did. "No."

"And you wonder why I thought you all hypocrites," George cried. The other shot him a quizzical look, and he amended that to: "You censure me so, and yet you think not to criticise those of your level that do the same."

Laughter was rude, as well as offensive to his company, and yet William felt that urge more acutely than ever. A twinge from his shoulder, which he had not realised he was bracing, brought him back to reality.

"In the first place," he replied, "they are not my responsibility. Second, you know you are not the same class as they are. They have the funds and the dubious freedom to do as they please. There are more demands on your time."

"Says the gentleman," George chimed in bitterly.

At this point William's expression could best be described as 'exasperated'. "I'm trying to _help_ you!" he exploded. "Do you not understand? People like you who cannot or will not work are not employed, therefore they have no income to maintain households or even make the necessary purchases with, and the end result is that they die and _no one cares!_ Your attitude is not helping anyone, least of all yourself!"

"People like me," the former lieutenant echoed. "What about people like you, Fitz? Are they free to work or not work as much as they will?"

The insect-black itch to fix this problem and the refusal of the problem to be fixed was decidedly grating on the other's nerves. "Did you really think that all gentlemen gambolled about all day with nothing to do but eat, shoot, sleep, and enjoy themselves?"

Silence; an affirmative.

"This ridiculous claim that my father favoured you over me – do you want to know what I never bothered with it, even when you threw it in my face?"

Well, that was not entirely true.

George shifted again, his gaze locking on William's face rather than the floor. Now the gentleman knew he had the militiaman's interest, he ploughed on. "It was because you were indulged more than I was – at first glance, one would think you were the favourite, but George Darcy was not such a man. Think."

"Do not dare dishonour his name," the other growled.

"Who is, George?" William asked hotly.

His forceful tone left a silence in its wake that hung between them like a curtain. Even William's eyes dropped to the floor. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak.

Eventually, William thought it wiser to cut his losses and go.

* * *

Elizabeth's reaction to seeing him standing in the hall to greet her was a brilliant grin that prompted a return smile from her suitor. She had come with Jane and her father, of course, but the former had gone to greet Charles and the latter knew enough by now to head for the Netherfield library that housed some of his own tomes by now.

As soon as was proper, William found himself in some danger of being smothered, as Elizabeth had flung her arms around him and was hugging him to death. She had facilitated his halting attempts to return to mobility, but to see him like this was obviously a source of joy.

What she said next astonished him. "William, my William," she murmured in his ear.

And it was nothing like the way his mother or his father said 'my son', or the way Theo, Charles, or Richard said 'my friend'. It exploded into gold and green and sunset colours.

He pressed a soft, discreet kiss to her forehead and nodded towards the drawing room. "Georgiana is already waiting," he whispered. For the young Miss Darcy to join her brother and his host in receiving callers was not, strictly speaking, proper; yet all the callers they were entertaining were friends who had become intimate and family friends. They were borderline acceptable to the rules of Society.

In either case, William did not much care. All he wished was that Elizabeth and Georgiana were happy, and they were. Of course, the Darcys were due to leave in a se'nnight, but no good thing could last indefinitely.

The next morning, William walked to the mid-journey tree – a mile and a half from either house – and waited, as agreed upon.

Elizabeth appeared not long afterwards, and sat down next to him. It was almost as if no years had passed, and they were still only William and Lizzy, children who played in the shade without a care in the world. As if Lizzy was still a round-cheeked, too-energetic little girl and William was still an overly tall adolescent who saw nothing but rose.

Sometimes William wondered if all people had only one shade when they were born. Core colours, he thought of them. After long enough of a life, they had more. Elizabeth was gold and green – always – but she was also a little bit of smoke grey and hearth-red.

"You are really not angry?"

"About what, Lizzy?"

"That I love you."

A soft voice, as though those three words could tear apart the world; as though those words could destroy a dream… Never. He was teetering on a balance-beam that was tilting; his feet were uncertain and his heart was too young, but… never would he refuse Elizabeth's love. "No," he said instead.

William would not, later, recall how much time passed, but what he would remember was how he realised what that meant. Elizabeth had said what he had wanted her to for – how long? Six years!

A year ago he would have sworn he would never see her again, and yet she loved him, oh, she loved him, and she was revelling in it as much as he. He kissed Elizabeth on the cheek, just because he could and he relished that.

Only that was very decidedly not her cheek.

Lightning sparked him backwards and all William was conscious of for a moment was his own short breathing and Elizabeth's red face. "What," he began. "…what was that?"

"I would agree," she said wryly, although a blush was still high on her cheeks.

"It would appear we had the same idea."

"It would seem so, yes."

But he had liked it. He had kissed Elizabeth's lips instead of her cheek and _he liked it_. A mischievous smile crossed his lips. "Would you like to do it again?"

* * *

Elizabeth had never tried anything like it. All she knew was the frisson of – something – that tickled her spine deliciously at the touch of soft and rough, and she liked it. One will forgive her ignorance when one recalls that she had had no prior experience or knowledge of this. Her parents had never been especially affectionate, and her culture and society was such that these matters were never discussed in the circle in which she moved.

As eager as they were, they had no idea what to do. So there was a bit of an awkward silence, and then William moved in and nuzzled her at a point where her ear and jawline met, probably to make her more comfortable with him.

Elizabeth could smell him through his cologne; he smelled so inherently _William_ that she would know it was him even had his dark hair not been tickling her cheek. Cerulean eyes with golden rings regarded her hesitantly. And in an action she would never have considered of the master of propriety that William was, he took a breath and pressed his lips to hers.

She closed her eyes, savouring the peculiar, unbridled sensation. His breath warmed her cheek, his fingers on her wrists burned with the same searing passion as his lips, and her own hands curled around the collar of his coat.

Her companion pulled back in shock, tongue flicking out to wet lips she had tasted a moment ago. "Oh." He seemed quite unable to say more, his eyes snapping open to reveal irises half-consumed by black pupil.

For a moment they sat at a loss, until Elizabeth buried her face in his chest and laughed.

William laughed the nervous titter of someone who has just escaped a tense situation, kissing her forehead. Suddenly, his arm tightened around her shoulders and he hugged her as though he wanted never to let go. "I realised something," he said. "When you said your life was not half as bad as I made it sound, that day when I told you Theo's story, I discovered just how much I took you for granted."

"What? When? I never noticed," Elizabeth chuckled.

William's shoulder twinged acutely, and he was hard put not to wince. "I always rather assumed I was a priority," he admitted, his heart in his throat. It was not that he was afraid of her reaction; she was Elizabeth, of course she could mean no lasting harm. It was that he had always been so private, so reticent, especially for the past four years, divulging anything remotely personal had him on edge.

"How so?"

"I subconsciously concluded that you, as a young girl who was my friend, had nothing better to do than absorb yourself with me," was his soft confession. "One of the reasons, I think, the Quarrel affected me so badly was that I simply assumed you would come back - that you would always come back regardless of what I did or said. I was conceited enough to think that I was the most important thing to you, and for that I paid the highest price I thought I could have paid."

"You were not, perhaps, the most important thing to me," Elizabeth answered; "but certainly you were among the most precious." William's heart nearly beat itself out of its body, so hard did it race, though whether in relief or in happiness he had no idea. "And thought? What price did you pay, and what higher price did you avoid paying?"

"I paid the price of your friendship," William said. "I in particular was going sour towards my twenty-third year – I took you too much for granted to be careful to be kind to you, so the signs were there. Still, I could have paid the higher price of your acquaintance entirely, as I thought I had done."

"No," Elizabeth vowed. William knew she was wise enough not to say 'never'; they were yet young enough for 'never' to be a long time, but not young enough for the words to be so innocent.

Once upon a time, a boy had asked a girl, "How long do you think we shall be friends?" when he discovered how very far she lived. He was thirteen, and to thirteen hundreds of miles seemed far too far. And she had answered, "Forever." Ten years later that promise was broken, and four years after that it was mended and made again.

He could tell she remembered it too.

William wondered if that boy of thirteen knew just how deeply he would come to adore that girl of six, or if it would have frightened him to have given such an intimate part of himself away.

Certainly that boy would have loathed his older self. William's scars twitched under his sleeve, and he remembered the other purpose he came. "I wanted to give you this," he finally declared, handing her the slip of a note he had carried for just about two years and inwardly cringing at the contents.

She unfolded the little thing, marked, in a shaking hand, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Longbourn House, Hertfordshire. The note ran:

 _My dearest Elizabeth,_

 _You may be surprised at the opening. Well, never mind that, because by the time you read this I shall be dead. I have no idea how you are now, or if you are even reading this anymore, because I was very afraid you hate me. I only hope you are in the best of health, and your family and Victoria as well. Do not worry about me. At present (well, in your present. In my present I am writing this note) I am probably at rest, if there is any for someone like me._

 _The opening was that way for a reason, and now that I am about to die I shan't keep secrets. Secret-sharing was your favourite part, always._

 _I am no longer afraid of anything, because I face death, and Death has a way of taking fear away. I am no longer afraid of who I am, Elizabeth, and besides many other things, Fitzwilliam Darcy is a man who loves you._

 _In life and in death, I shall remain,_

 _Always and ever yours,_

 ** _William_**

It left her a-roil with an awful boggy feeling like soggy pond mud. This was his note from his suicide attempt; there was no date, but the dreadful, reckless style of writing was unmistakeable in its misery. That was his last resort for confessing, and while she had to admit he had a true flair for the dramatic, she went absolutely cold at the signature: _In life and in death…_

Only the warmth of William's chest against her side and the cool of his reassuring lips against her forehead kept her from falling apart at that adieu. It was a final, tortured goodbye that Elizabeth would have been devastated to read with the still truth behind them. "William?" she managed.

"Aye."

"Why?"

He sighed. "I can hardly remember… I feel so differently now. I was so afraid you would only accept my love out of compassion for a friend and prodding from your mother, back then. Now it seems so silly."

"No… why the closing?" She showed him the dreadful signature.

Her dark-haired companion's mouth drew into a thin line. "I was… half-gone by that point," he murmured. "Here," pointing at a brownish-green stain at one corner, "that was blood."

And though his eyes were turned away from her, she saw them, dimmer by far than they were now, rising to the ceiling of his room with resigned despair before closing forever. How close had that come to happening? Human it might be to err, but her mistakes had ended in a situation that would have ended William's life without outside help. She shivered, thinking of that alternate sequence of events where help came too late, and she received the note that proclaimed truth instead of outdated sorrow.

The hand that clutched hers told her that that had _not_ come to pass, and that the person who wrote that note was still alive, thank God, thank whoever saved him. " _Dear_ Elizabeth," telling her that he was alive and he was here and he loved her, and to please remember that.

"Here I am," he whispered, as if he knew what was going through her mind at that moment. Burying her face in his coat, in his warmth, in him, Elizabeth needed no words to tell him what that note meant to her.

The words themselves contained the anguish of a man who was about to die with his life unlived, but it was as if a shadow had reared its head when she read those words. The darkness and the desperation and oh, the _misery_ , clutched at the tips of her fingers, the small of her back, and the corners of her heart where her deepest, wickedest fears and angers and desires lurked.

The only way to describe it was the shadow of poison, nearly ten times as potent as the poison itself.

She almost wanted to tear the piece of paper apart and throw it to the breeze, yet some kind of perversity in her wanted to keep it, to be able to take it out and see and feel her fill.

As terrible as it was, she realised, it was somehow beautiful.

Meant to be the last bars of an anguished symphony, the words stirred a kind of longing and horror that was rooted farther down in her soul than she could describe. The marriage of Misery and Death was devastating indeed, but in it lay some primal, ineffable allure.

Elizabeth ran her finger over the stain on the corner, and imagined William's coffin, William's grave. Perhaps there would be roses on it, or tulips. White and red roses, probably. Again she thought of 'what if'; what if she had received this missive when it spoke truth?

There would be no doubt that it was indeed from William, but she had by then half-forgotten his surname, buried in her mind along with the other unwanted reminders of her mistakes.

She would probably be allowed to attend the funeral, if her father came with her. It would be a chance to say goodbye… and then Elizabeth remembered that suicides were buried, without honour or ceremony, at crossroads.

Nudging her way to the crook where William's arm met his shoulder, she tucked her nose in and wept.

* * *

"I know you would not have sent your pebble with Theo without good reason," said William heavily. In truth, it was more of a little candle-yellow hope that somewhere, the George he knew hid underneath. "I am not here to mock or chide you. Only… if you are ever ready, you know where to find me."

The redcoat looked up dully; amber eyes cloudy and dim. The apathetic desperation in them resonated with the gentleman, who turned abruptly and said, "Suicide is a coward's way out, and George… if ever you loved me… no." Unable to look in the amber mirror any longer, he fled.

Hateful, hateful shame! William seethed with burning burgundy and his fire of a hope. He screwed his eyes shut and pushed the image of a haggard, gaunt face pale with sickness and drawn with despair out of mind. _That is behind me now_.

And somehow, thinking of both that and George, a flash of sun-yellow stopped him from going.

 _It is not behind me, not quite_ , he realised. George's inability to reconcile his past and his present and his future had led to jealousy, envy, and self-destruction. In the end, William would have to learn to look back unflinchingly. When each recollection came with a stab of blood-crimson, it would take a long time. And even Elizabeth could only help so much.

The resolve shone like sword-steel.

With it came a colour he had seen only twice before in his life. Richard's departure, and Father's death. Both times he had made a promise that he buried deep in his foundations and made his life. It spoke of turmoil and high-speed winds and anchors with white-knuckled hands clutching on for dear life.

Hurricane grey.

"Wick," he said, turning back again. "Have you ever seen these?" He unbuttoned his cuff and raised his sleeve. He knew his right arm was quite visible, and that George would definitely see.

"What are those?" Dull stone-grey, with a little bit of intrigue.

William could not meet even George's eyes, afraid to look and see himself. If he did, he would break. "I said suicide is the coward's way out. I speak from experience." _Why not_ , he thought with a bitter edge (like nightshade leaves). He unbuttoned the other cuff and raised the other sleeve.

The bedclothes rustled, and a suddenly sharp voice demanded, "Tell me you did not."

"Oh I did," William replied. Challenging.

Seized with a vindictive, almost vicious desire to make him feel it, _damn it_ , William jerked his left sleeve higher and showed his old friend the patch of scars that sparked muddy brown, crimson, and dull azure.

The scars after the Ramsgate Incident (Disaster, he amended). Even Elizabeth did not know he had resumed cutting after his sister's heartbreak. Even Richard and Georgiana had no idea. He had struggled to stop, actually, but he did, soon before coming to Netherfield.

William knew the freshness of the scars would speak for itself.

There seemed to be nothing to say after that.


End file.
